


But The Sea Is Empty

by icantwritegood



Series: Horizons [1]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Ancient China, Blood and Violence, Celtic, Communism, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gods, Griffins, Mammoths, Necromancy, Norse, Reincarnation, Renaissance Era, Science Experiments, Sea God, Slow Burn, Swords & Sorcery, Victorian, aesthetics such as, also i draw inspiration from various religions (both ancient and modern), and aspects of christianity, and celtic and norse, fictional setting, it'll all make more sense i swear, like buddhist, long fic, many aesthetics mashed into one story, these tags are making me laugh like what the fuck is going on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 166,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22436164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icantwritegood/pseuds/icantwritegood
Summary: The gods have been forgotten and science has enveloped the nation. Gunpowder has been discovered and weapons grow more dangerous ever year. Faith in the future is lost.On an isolated island, left untouched by science, is a community still devoted to the gods, and a priest who believes he can convert the world back to belief and faith. On reaching the mainland, he is overwhelmed by the turmoil present across the country; rebellion in the north, cruel censorship in the south, and heartless greed throughout. Allies are few and far between. Scorn follows him like a plague, and from his only companion most of all; an exiled knight from a far away island, with a curious pet and a strong disdain for faith of any sort.Ricky and Tinsley make their way from one end of the country to the other, from freezing snow in the Great Mines to the fog fields of Gravehearth to the glittering lights of Arcania, and find themselves an odd cast of supporters on the way, helpful and unhelpful in equal measures.And Ricky begins to wonder if there is more to his own faith than he had been told.
Relationships: Ricky Goldsworth/C. C. Tinsley
Series: Horizons [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727734
Comments: 223
Kudos: 263





	1. Ivory and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> yea boiiiiiiiiii
> 
> this is the furthest i've strayed from the ricky-tinsley dynamic, as in tinsley isn't a detective and ricky isn't a criminal. they're just two guys being dudes. with magick. and aesthetically-pleasing outfits.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’ll adore you, as a drowned person does the sea.”_ \- Renée Vivien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tiny bit of nsfw !

A single flame crossed the dark marshes, hurrying. The man carrying it had been given orders to fetch a very important man for a very important service. He knew the people were waiting. He hurried onwards, breathless, towards the far cliffs. He could see the priest's silhouette against the grey clouds in the near distance. Luckily, the priest was a relatively easy man to find.

He would typically be found standing on the cliff’s edge, no matter the weather, although it was storming more often than not. His hair and greatcoat would be whipped wildly by the wind, yet he himself wouldn’t stumble, not on his feet nor in his words. He was talking to the gods, they would say. He was putting forth his argument as to why their small island should be exempt from the crashing, clawing waves, why their town shouldn’t be dragged to the murky depths for judgement.

Some were certain that when he talked they saw the waves part like a mouth, and heard a roaring voice answer in a language only the drowned could understand. Perhaps they were correct, perhaps not, but the rumours were many.

What was only for definite was that Ricky stared into the depths with a yearning for its silence, its darkness, its smooth weight. The urge to strip down and dive from the cliff’s edge was overwhelming on such stormy nights; the waves swelled and reached for him, and he could see hundreds of watery hands stretching to break the surface, _come to us, come forever._ The world would look so much more beautiful from under the water - to look up and see twice the amount of stars, _ten_ times the amount of stars, all split and shattered in the ripples of the sea above, his own private sky. The moon would gleam and shimmer like a pearl and the sun like a ruby, and the salt would glitter in his black hair like a fine dusting of diamonds. His breath would tumble from his lips in tremulous bubbles and rise up and up in clear clouds, and pure icy water would fill his lungs and take him as its own, and he would allow it to do so. If he was to die one day, that was the only way for him; to die in the ocean’s cradling hands was the purest, gentlest form of death. He was born from it, as the rumour went. Washed up on the shore as a baby, caught onto driftwood barely larger than he was by his swaddling cloth. The most striking thing the woman who had found him could recall was that he hadn’t been crying; the only dampness on his cheeks was that from the seawater. A shipwreck must have occurred - yet where was the wreckage, the torn pieces of sail? Where were the lifeboats? And if no lifeboats, where were the other survivors, the other bodies? It was just this child, with skin the colour of the damp sand beside him, and eyes as dark as the sea was deep. But they were a familial people, and it was swiftly decided he would be taken in and given to the priesthood on the west of the island. Perhaps he was a blessing! Perhaps a gift sent from the gods! 

And as Ricky had gotten older, he had given them no reason to doubt these sentiments. Everything about him resembled the sea he had come from - his black curls like roiling waves, his temperament unpredictable and changeable (calm one minute, furious the next, and terrifying in his fury), his voice smooth like waves in a bay. The islanders enjoyed listening to him speak, and they enjoyed watching him speak too. He had grown to be beautiful, in the way that he was entirely different to those around him - his skin a warm tone instead of cold, his eyes black instead of light, his lips full instead of thin, his nose snub, unlike the fleshy ones common among the rest of the island. Because of this, there was jealousy and there was envy and there was awe, and all of them had the same result - alienation at the hands of others. He was still young when he decided that if he was to be alienated, he would much rather just do it himself.

It was inevitable that he would become one of the priests, and a prolific one at that. He wore their clothes - dark leather boots to just below the knees (laced tight to prevent water from entering), dark trousers and a dark shirt and most notably a heavy deep blue (almost black) greatcoat made of a thick oiled fabric, so long that it was permanently damp at the end due to it brushing the wet sand as he walked (although he wasn’t the tallest individual either, and was actually among the shortest people on the island). He wore it with the high collar up and the sleeves down to cover his gloved hands to the knuckles. He had received the priests’ markings too - sapphire-blue whorls from wrist to shoulder, spilling down over his shoulder blades, over his chest, a single tendril brushing up the back of his neck. 

The procedure had been painful, his skin carved by a small chisel-like object as blue seaweed (previously dried) was boiled and reboiled over a fire until it formed a paste. He had been given a piece of leather to bite down on, to prevent him from accidentally biting off his tongue due to the pain. Blood leaked and dripped from the stinging carvings, sweat ran in streams down his face and neck, he still remembered the pain, he had never screamed like he had that day and night. The blood had been swiftly cleaned away with a saltwater-soaked cloth and the paste rubbed in - it had stung and he had shed salty tears - and his skin would heal over it. It had, over the months, but when he ran his fingers over the markings he could still feel indents. The colour underneath was bright, vibrant, he felt like they glowed. _I belong,_ they said, and he tried to believe them.

“Ricky.”

He opened his eyes slowly, and found himself closer than ever to the edge of the cliff. He could see the bottom, the black rocks holding back the furious white waves, he could hear their roarings. He looked over his shoulder at the person who had spoken his name.

“Is it time?”

The man nodded. The torch in his hand was flickering and sputtering wildly. “Yes.”

Ricky took the torch off him as he passed by, heading back down the cliff, over the spongy, mossy ground. The pit wasn’t too far, just the next bay over. He could see the gathered crowd from where he was, silent, waiting, shades of black and darkest blue. Only one voice was carried through the wind, and it was frightened, pleading. Ricky was grateful. The gods were more pleased when their sacrifice suffered.

The crowd split either side of him, bowing their heads. They were all wrapped in their cloaks and tunics, the pins that fastened them glittered with water droplets from the crashing waves below. They were all cold. Ricky wasn’t. He never was. He wore his coat open and his shirt loose, and although his skin occasionally prickled with gooseflesh, he was numb to it all. He was told that he could have developed this immunity as a baby, due to his long exposure to the icy waters. He was very ill when they first took him in, the older members of the priesthood would say. They doubted he would live. He shivered and cried in his cot for days. But he had defied their expectations, and they were glad for it.

Ricky stopped at the edge of the pit and observed the sacrifice. The man had washed up onshore only the day beforehand, a fisherman, his boat had capsized, he said. The people hadn’t believed him; why would a mainland fisherman have sailed so far out into the waters? Far enough to wash up on the shores of Storm's Eye? It was unheard of. He was an enemy. They had asked the chieftess what to do with the fisherman. She had listened to Ricky’s advice - _the sea had sent him to us, as a warning, to let us know we’re being watched, and now we should give him back_ \- and it was decided that he would be given as a gift to the gods. The stormy season was upon them, and perhaps a life would appease the temper of the gods in some way.

Ricky held the torch out into the pit, although it was much too deep to be able to see the fisherman’s face clearly. He was shouting at them, shouting for mercy from where he was tied to the stake. Ricky wished he would shout louder, so that the gods could hear him more clearly. He turned his head, seeing the gatekeeper at the far end of the pit, holding onto the rusted old lever that had sat in the ground since before any true settlement was here. Ricky let go of the torch, the only source of light along the bay, and it began its long fall into the pit - it spun, the flames swirled like ink in water, the smoke leaving grey spirals in the air - and it hadn’t even reached the wet sand at the bottom of the pit before the signal had been taken and the gatekeeper dragged the lever backwards. The iron gate groaned and scraped and cried out as it began to rise. Dark water poured in instantly; it crashed around the sides of the pit, biting chunks out of the earth, and only when it had completed a lap of the space did it collapse into the centre, taking the sacrifice in its cold grip, taking its breath and its life and its cry for mercy. There was no applause, no hymns, no sound from the watchers. This was not a celebration, it was a duty. Still, Ricky felt a lightness in his heart. He smiled, satisfied, watching the swirling sea. How alive it was. Then he felt a tug on his hand. He looked down; it was a child, a young girl, wrapped up to her chin in scarves.

“My mother and father were wondering if you would like to join us for dinner this evening,” she asked, shyly. She shrank into her scarves.

Ricky smiled at her, then at the parents who had asked. A recently wedded couple. From the looks on their faces, they were hoping for their bed to be blessed. He had no reason to reject their request, and instead was actually quite looking forward to it; sacrifices always got his blood up. “Yes. That would be lovely.”

They lived across the island from him, about an hour’s walk. They talked on the way, comfortably, and Ricky let them touch him, hold his hand or his arm, brush their fingers across his chest. The wife smiled often and brightly and had brown hair pinned back with a gold brooch - a family heirloom, by the look of it. Single wavy tendrils of her hair brushed around her wanton eyes. She was undoubtedly pretty, but only from an aesthetically pleasing sort of way. Ricky was more interested in her husband, who had a sandy-coloured head of hair and the typical grey-blue eyes of the island; he smiled using them alone.

They had made a seafood pie, a creamy layer of potato along the top, and oysters for afterwards. Ricky never knew why people bothered with the oysters; they believed it to help in preparing for intercourse, but it never made any difference to him. The children ate with them, and they climbed onto Ricky’s lap and had him tell stories from the sea, which he readily did; children were much better listeners than adults, he had come to know. When the food was done the husband and wife sent the children away, to their grandmother’s across the marshy street, and they led Ricky upstairs.

* * *

“No, he said no gravy.”

“No gravy? And no salt or pepper? We might as well give this man a plate of cotton wool.”

“And don’t bring out the wine! He said no wine.”

“What? Who is this person?” Cook stared at the food on the plate; plain meat, plain carrots and peas and potato, plain bread, not a dribble of butter or a sprinkling of seasoning. It made her miserable. “I can’t serve this. Barry will have my head.”

“It’s what the man wants, and he was very clear about it,” said the serving girl, adjusting her bonnet on her ruddy curls. She set about recounting the interaction, facial expressions included, her brows shooting up and down. “Plain food, nothing fancy. I says, so no gravy? And he says, so no gravy. And then I says, but some salt and pepper, yes, sir? Salt and pepper? And he says, no salt and pepper. I says, right away, I’ll get ye some wine for your cup, and he says, right sharp, no wine! Water for him.”

“Well on my ma’s grave, I never.” Cook shook her head in despair. “He must be miserable.”

The serving girl nodded. “He seems so, Cook.”

Cook shook her head again, moving onto the next order. “Just bring it out then. And don’t say a word about us talking about him, okay?”

“Sure thing, Cook.”

She picked up the plate and carried it out from the heat and hustle of the kitchens to the equal heat and hustle of the main inn. The man sat by himself across the room, chin in his hand and an awfully serious look on his sharp face. Every about him was sharp; his eyebrows (always drawn together to varying degrees), his pointed nose, his chin, his wrists and fingers, the cut of his clothing, the way he moved (quickly, but never further than exactly was required), and the way he spoke (clipped and cold, like a schoolteacher to an irksome child). She put his plate down in front of him and got a muttered ‘thanks’. He didn’t touch it. She retreated to the kitchen and watched him from behind the door frame. He stared at the plate for a while, but it didn’t seem that he was seeing it. Then he pushed it away, and instead swallowed his glass of water in one, spilling some on himself, swiping irritably at the damp patch it left on his dusty coat. The coat sure did have the look of a rider - the collar of it rose about halfway up the man’s neck, and the sleeves were cuffed tight around his wrists, all held in place with gilded buttons. The serving girl let her nose wrinkle. He wasn’t _that_ special. He acted just like every other man who came in here. His coat was dull and scuffed like theirs, even though she had been promised all the colours of the sky, and shining precious metals. She jumped as Cook batted her with a cloth, ordering her to get back to the kitchens. The serving girl hitched up her skirts above her ankles and hurried back into the steam and heat.

“Did you see it?” asked a washing boy, pausing elbows deep in murky, foamy water. “Is it really outside?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, rolling up her sleeves as she went back to the vegetables. “I don’t even think he _is_ a rider. He’s awfully normal. And he spilled his drink on himself.”

“I saw it!” another washing boy piped up. “It’s big as that table. Bigger. It’s big as this room! Might even be bigger!”

“You’re lying.”

“Am not! I saw it in the stables! I had to move the horses and I saw it come in and it was-”

“Enough chat!” snapped Cook. “C’mon. There’s more people here than that so-called rider.”

If Tinsley had heard her say this, he would have been glad. He was sick of being reminded of what he used to be; what he was meant to be. He punished himself daily for it, depriving himself of all the niceties in life, his own private penance. He picked up his fork and stabbed moodily at the meat on his plate. It looked like beef. Or maybe lamb. It didn’t matter, it looked dry, and he wasn’t hungry. He had heard of this happening - a year after depriving oneself of certain foods, one would lose an appetite for them. He forced himself to eat some of the potato, and began to realize that perhaps he was a little bit hungry, but when he was on his second forkful someone sat down across from him. A little child of perhaps five. It was always children. They were curious. Adults were frightened.

“Do you have a firepowder pistol?” asked the little girl with wide eyes, ignoring her father’s hissed orders to return to the table.

“I do.” Tinsley took the weapon from his belt and placed it on the table between them; it was heavy enough to rattle the cutlery. He had polished it only the evening before, and had to admit that it did seem quite impressive, with its shiny gold gilding and gleaming redwood. “Knock yourself out.”

“Do _not_ touch that, Anna.” The father finally came over, picking up the child under her arms, giving Tinsley a disapproving look. “You should hide those things.”

“Yeah?” Tinsley nodded at the kid. “You should tell her not to annoy strangers at dinner, but it seems to be hereditary.”

The man scowled at him. “I thought your type was meant to be respectable.”

Tinsley waved him away, letting his head fall forwards into his other hand in a most dramatic display of weariness, suddenly sick of the social contact. He sat where he was for another few minutes, glowering at his rapidly-cooling dinner. He was no longer hungry. He was just tired. At least the inn seemed quiet. He liked quiet.

He trudged upstairs, checking the number on the fabric tag of the key against the numbers branded into the wooden doors. It was a relief that the place even had keys - some nights he was forced to rest on the bed and its covers, fully-clothed, pistol on the bedside locker and his eyes on the door. What was even better was that this room had a window overlooking the yard and the stables. Even though there was no chance she would be able to fit through the window - not even just her head would manage to - he liked being able to see her when he felt like it, and he was certain she liked being able to see him too.

He locked the room door behind him, tucking the key into the top of the chest of drawers set against the wall. Then began the long process of getting undressed.

First were the gloves, a soft brown leather, the inside lined with warm down. The air was cool against his fingers, but they’d warm up soon enough. He undid the button at the high collar of his coat, and then did the two at his sleeves, pushing them through the slips. He undid the belt, the metal buckle clinking as he hung the coat on the hook provided on the back of the door. It looked dull. He hated looking at it; it used to be his pride and joy, and now he couldn’t bring himself to clean and polish it so that it looked as it used to, as bright as the midday sky. He tutted to himself, turning away, taking off the thick leather belt around his hips, off which hung his pistol and rapier, although he hadn’t used the latter for quite some time. He slipped his hand around the decorated hilt - the gold created a filigree casing around his fingers - and drew it out of its scabbard, just an inch or so. It looked like it needed to be sharpened. He slid it back into the scabbard and hung the belt up with his coat, before taking the goggles from around his neck and hanging them up too - circular glass lenses set into stiff leather, and only a bit scuffed and scratched. He began to remove the rest of his clothes, unlacing his boots - a soft leather like his gloves, and the outsoles crafted for stirrups - and then his dark jodhpurs, and finally his underjumper, high-necked and long-sleeved to prevent the tight collar and cuffs of his coat from rubbing his skin raw. He pulled on some looser clothing and flopped onto the bed, letting his arms spread out to either side, hands lax. Then came the crushing question that came to him every time he was idle: what to do now?

A few months previous and he probably would have been getting horribly drunk in the nearest brothel. Or maybe he would have been somewhere where there was a lively band and laughter and ale flowing freely. Maybe he would have been at home. He rolled onto his side, feeling the throbbing pain in his chest return, as it did whenever he let his thoughts wander back through time. He simply had to start convincing himself that nostalgia was lying to him, and his past wasn’t as pleasant as he thought it was - perhaps the sky hadn’t been so bright and vast, the breeze hadn’t been so fresh, the sun hadn’t been so warm and comforting. He could have stayed south, where it was warm and bright and the air wasn’t so damp all the time, clinging onto him, leaving little water droplets on the hems of his coat. He could have gone east, and seen the fog fields, and waded through them as if they were pools of water. He had skimmed the Darkwoods in the west, and the view of dark pine trees stretching on and on into the distance had both terrified and excited him. Yet he hadn’t gone in, despite the fact he had the choice to do so. There were so many sights to see. But all he wanted was to see was his home. Nothing else was worth the effort.

He snapped into a sitting position at a sudden knock on his door. "Who is it?"

"Is this the rider?" whispered a voice.

Tinsley threw his eyes to the ceiling. Then he got to his feet, taking his pistol from its holster on the back of the door before cracking said door open. He made sure only his face was visible. It was the red-haired serving girl. "What do you want. It's late and I'm tired."

She twiddled her thumbs, rocking back and forth a little, her skirts brushing the ground as they swayed. "Can I tell you something?"

He debated telling her to get lost, but he hadn't yet lost his heart entirely. "Depends what it is."

"Do you have friends here?"

"No."

She nodded, as if this had been what she had expected. "Well, there's a group of people downstairs and they want to talk to you."

Tinsley closed the door over an inch but turned his head sideways so that both of his eyes remained visible in the gap between door and frame. "Did they ask for me?"

"No, I just overheard them." She shrugged her shoulders, pulled at a lock of her hair that was peeping out from under her cap. "They said 'talk' like this-" She used her fingers as quotation marks and deepened her voice. "- _talk."_

Tinsley gave her a long look before letting the door begin to creep slowly, slowly closed. "I had best be going, then."

"Bye."

He shut the door over and locked it and double-checked that he'd locked it before scrambling back into his clothes, his heart hammering - trousers, boots, jumper, gloves, coat, oh all the buttons he shouldn't have put his gloves on yet, off with the gloves, he should be used to this by now, buttons done up, gloves back on. He was lacing up his boots with frantic hands when he heard the first scraping at the lock on the door. Tinsley quietly, quietly, removed his belt from the hook on the door, slipping it around his narrow waist before retreating back across the room. He stopped at the window, pushing a hand back and fumbling with the latch. The window swung open with hardly a creak once the latch had been undone; a well-oiled window saved many a life, Tinsley had come to know. He sat back up on the sill, and as the door to the room creaked open he let himself drop back and out of sight, silent.

The first person who stuck their head in the door, a large woman with a scar down the side of her face, only saw his legs vanish out the window. She cursed, shoving open the door to let the other three people in, and ran over to where the window still swung gently on its hinges. She could see the man's slim frame making its way swiftly and steadily down towards the yard, clambering down the drainpipes, crossing the few roofs with graceful strides, his coat flowing behind him. At his approach, movement was visible within the stable. He was as good as gone. She huffed, hands on her hips.

"What now?" asked one of her companions gruffly.

She shrugged. "Forget it. We're wasting time and money trying to catch that bastard. Not worth it." She turned away, putting her dagger back in her hilt. "He should be thinking about this, though. Soon enough they'll start trying to catch him themselves, and he won't find it so easy to run away."

By the next morning Tinsley was in the next town, in the next inn, in the next room where he slept fitfully and had dreams of home so sweet they were nightmares. He sat up in the middle of the night, arms around his legs, chin resting on his knees as he stared at the darkness of the room. He was hungry, but he didn't feel like eating. He had had that strange dream again; a man with skin made of gold and black stones of onyx for eyes. These eyes should have had no sight, but Tinsley could always feel them watching him, and when he looked back their gazes would meet with the same soft sensation as the touch of hand on hand. But he could not go closer; the air around the man shimmered with deadly heat. Tinsley would wake up from it, not afraid, but unsettled enough that going back to sleep would take quite some time.

After a few minutes he got out of the bed and moved to the window, pushing it open. The inky blackness of the sea was just a few streets away. He hated the sea. He hated how it looked and smelled and how it acted; unpredictable and cruel. Strange how people used to believe it was a living being, full to the brim with gods. That was forgotten when people realized that the only gods around were themselves. The Discovery had been the triggering event; a group of Arcanians accidentally creating firepowder, and the realization that human beings could create such monstrous things, such powerful things, and there was nothing truly there to stop them but each other. The weapons developed were dangerous, dangerous enough that surely the gods couldn't even withstand them, let alone other humans.

In fact, it had been such a danger that Arcania had been put under siege until they gave over the substance's concoction to Tinsley's own people from the Roost, and Snow's End. The Arcanians had flaunted their intelligence, but not their wisdom, in attempting to sell the substance to both cities behind the other's back. They hadn't counted on the delegation from Snow's End arriving a day early. A simple coincidence had changed the course of history.

The Roost developed weapons, muskets and pistols, while Snow's End developed machine giants that shook the earth as they moved. The Arcanians were warned against another Discovery, and strict censorship on scholarly activities was imposed, firstly from the outside, and then from within. Only certain advancements in technology permitted, and only after a conference with delegations from the Four Cities - the Roost, Snow's End, Arcania, and Gravehearth as a mediator, as they were generally quite uninterested in becoming involved in the development of such weapons. Breaching this censorship meant imprisonment, and eventual execution, if you didn't perish during the long wait. This censorship had spread across the south, reaching Tinsley's own home, and in spite of the protests it was implemented. Harshly.

So Tinsley had gone north. He was sick of the south and it's meekness and the willingness of the people to exist so monotonously. But by gods, it was cold up here. Was this freedom? Trudging by day after day, fighting to survive? Was it better to struggle in a free society, or be safe under a strict set of rules? He didn't know. He thought he would have found out by now.

He watched the white froth on the sea, cresting and plummeting. The answer was out there something, it had to be.

* * *

The windows had fogged from the heat in the room. Ricky rubbed a clear circle into one, peering out at the marshes. They stretched on and on, all the way over to the other side, his side, of the island. They were entirely bare. It was impossible to build on them; therefore all the villages were located in a ring around the island, on the beaches and firmer soils. It was a beautiful place, in a savage way. Cold and unmerciful, and therefore the people who had grown there had grown proud, and without a need for mercy. They suffered as they had to, in the wet and cold and storms, and they celebrated as they should, with feasts and wine and love for any occasion. 

It was not essential, but it was common for a newly wed couple to invite a priest or priestess into their bed. It didn’t have to end in sex - it was perfectly acceptable for the couple to share food and wine with the priest, and to share stories and jokes, and simply enjoy their new beginning - but Ricky found himself frequently joining them under the covers, as they wanted, and as he wanted too. The gender didn’t matter, although he did prefer the more masculine individuals. Pleasure was pleasure, and he got it from whoever wanted to give it, and he gave it to whoever wanted to take it.

He refilled his cup of wine before returning to the bed, where the blankets were still thrown asunder, and the sheets were still a tangle from their lovemaking. Ricky climbed back in, and the couple parted to let him in the centre, the wife kissing his shoulder. He had touched her and kissed her, as was required of him, but he had much preferred her husband, and by the end had been engaged with him only, and the wife pleasured herself to the sight of them. Now he lay between them, and when he kissed one the other kissed his neck, and their hands lay on him, and reached across to lay on each other. It was moments like these when he realized that despite his odd start in life, he had made the most of it. He felt fingertips tracing the markings on his chest.

“What do they mean?” asked the husband, still pressed close. “They’re beautiful.”

“I don't know,” replied Ricky, feeling the wife climb halfway onto him, kissing his neck, her hair brushing his skin. He let the back of his finger trace over the husband’s lips. “Even the priestess who carved them doesn’t know what they mean. And because of that, the markings are unpredictable, and all unique.”

“Like the sea?”

“Exactly like the sea.” He smiled. "You understand."

The wife kissed a particularly coiling mark on his chest. "Did it hurt? To get them done?"

"Yes."

"How long did it take?"

"A day and a night." He sat upright, and stretched, and she got off him. "Just as long as I've spent here, it feels. I have to get home."

He got dressed, and the weight of his coat was familiar, comforting, like an embrace (although not quite as warm). When he stepped outside he saw the breadth of the sky, its infinite vastness; far to the west was a fiery sunset, throwing flames into the clouds, and to the east was pure darkness, and a smattering of stars. It would be entirely dark soon. Ricky took the offered torch from the husband and wife, and he bid them goodnight before leaving.

It was a pleasant walk, once the way was known. One step too far to the right or the left and you would be up to your knees in bog, and the more you struggled, the further you'd sink. Ricky walked with confidence, the torch illuminating the fine blades of grass, the small buds of cotton. The air smelled like turf, wet, although the closer he got to the houses the smokier the smell of turf would become. He crested the hill, and he could see the glimmer of fires in the windows of the priesthood, the grey smoke drifting from short fat chimneys. But he didn't go down to them. He turned away and took a small gravel path down a steep hill, towards a miniature bay that was nothing more than a pile of boulders.

He wedged the torch between two of these boulders before stripping off, leaving his clothes to dry near the flame. Then he climbed down the rocks, into the dark, and slipped into the sea. The iciness bit into him as it always did, swallowing the heat from his body, but he withstood it. The water was calm. The gods must have been pleased with the offering he'd made them.

"Ricky?"

Ricky turned in the water, looking up at the vague figure he could see on the nearest stone. He smiled. "You saw me."

"You wanted me to see you." A soft splash as another body slipped into the sea. "I missed you this evening."

"I had to bless a bed."

A quiet laugh. "Does that mean you'll want to go to sleep?"

Ricky felt the man's hands on his waist, drawing him in. "What do you think I am, Anton? A mainlander?"

The other priest smiled at this; he was a big man, by the island's standards, and he and Ricky had been drawn to each other for as long as Ricky could remember. Ricky supposed that one day they would marry, but for some reason he never found himself too excited about that thought. He was sure love was meant to be exciting. Or was love a duty, just like everything else? Anton interrupted his thoughts. "Share my bed tonight."

Ricky nodded, reaching up to kiss him. "Of course."

Ricky lay with him that night, as he did most nights, but it was strange. When he imagined a lover, it was never Anton. It was someone else, someone exciting. When he dreamed of him he was as pale and smooth as ivory, cold to the touch, painfully cold, but soft, soft as white feathers. Ricky would wake and his fingertips would still be numb, and if he tried to remember the man's face all he would see was shifting shadows. It was the one frustrating aspect of his otherwise idyllic existence. He wondered if he would be dreaming this dream for the rest of his life.

He got out of bed and wrapped a woolen robe around himself before making his way to the refectory. It was a large hall dug into the cliff, although one side was left open to the sea. There were always large pots of bladderwack tea warmed by fires, which were tended by vigilant volunteers. He fetched himself some in a clay cup, adding a mint leaf. Then he took a seat, alone, at one of the tables that were carved from the rock of the ground, and watched the sea, all the way to where it melted into the sky and the stars began. He took a sip of steaming tea. He continued to drink it slowly, reluctant to go back and attempt to fall asleep. He wasn't sure what had him so restless. Perhaps it was the fact that he had everything he wanted, but was still certain that there was more out there that he _could_ want. He just didn't know what it was yet.

It was threatening dawn by the time he abandoned the table and returned to his room. Anton was still there, under the covers, asleep. Ricky climbed in beside him and moved close.

"Couldn't sleep again?" mumbled Anton, not quite awake.

"No. But it's okay."

Anton was already back asleep, face in the pillow. Ricky sighed, closed his eyes, and willed himself to slip away into unconsciousness too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ricky: drinking, fucking, living life
> 
> tinsley: i cant have gravy because i hate myself


	2. Blood and Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You and I are so strangely near" _\- Zinaida Nikolaevna Gippius__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know there's a few side characters i'm just kinda making up on the spot throughout the story but theyre just necessary for the overall plot yknow

The fire rumbled and roared in the furnace, a giant iron structure with a grilled fronting that was pushed open to let the fierce heat fill the hall. Outside was deathly cold and a wild blizzard had set in, the first of the season, slapping chunks of snow against the steel walls of the halls - even a struggle from one building to the next could cause a person to perish.

At the long tables workers sat in their damp cloaks - steam rose from them, making the high roof misty and hidden, as if it simply stretched up and up into the clouds. The food was the usual, which was whatever they could find during blizzard season. For tonight, hard bread and poached eggs, and a scraping of butter each. Rations were running low, and Snow’s End was refusing to send more, until more coal was sent to them first. _It’s awfully cold here,_ their letters said. _We simply require more heat. Then we will pay you with grains._

The Mayor observed the letter from under his bushy brows, and when he let out a harsh sigh it ruffled his moustache. It was colder here than it was in Snow’s End, he knew it was, as he had been in both during blizzard season. The couple of extra miles north brought a severe drop in temperature with it. He sat back and closed his eyes and pictured the city in his head. People would be inside their grand houses, with fires roaring in the carved fireplaces in every room, and warm cider to go around, more than the people could possibly consume. Here, there was nothing but hard spirits to keep you warm. Or make you drunk enough to be entirely unaware of the world around you, temperature included. The glasshands had no idea what true cold was.

The Mayor shook his head, opening his eyes. Glasshands? Since when did he use such a term, as if he hadn’t been one of them? He stared at his own hands; they were hidden behind sealskin gloves, but he knew they were rough and calloused now. Coal and rock were not soft on the skin, even with gloves for protection. He knew they needed more protection. They needed sturdier trees transferred to them for holding up the roofs of the mines. They needed sources of light that wouldn't combust when the wrong gas leaked into the shaft. They needed helmets that weren't cobbled together from scrap metal. They needed gloves that didn't tear at the slightest hint of roughness. Mostly, they needed filter masks. He knew the fumes in the mines were slow but deadly. He had written to Arcania, asking for it to be looked into, for some sort of headgear to be developed that would stop the workers from dying before their time. He had gotten a formal letter from the Council saying that the Schools were awfully busy, and it would be some time before they could secure one to look into this headgear. The Mayor had pondered this response; was it censorship, or was it the truth? It was often difficult to tell. He hadn't bothered writing back.

"What are we to do?" Manda's voice pulled him from his deepening thoughts. "We can't send them our last reserves of coal. We'll freeze before their grain gets here."

"And we were lucky we even got all the workers out of the mines before the snows blocked them up," added another voice, gruffly. "We won't be going back in there until the month's passed."

"I can imagine them now. Swooning around their fires because all they have to eat is a plump turkey." Manda tutted, scowling at the hard bread on her metal plate. "What a travesty."

The Mayor made a rumbling sound from behind his beard, sitting back, his furs rising around his head. "It's the same thing every year. We'll be shipping off the dead to Gravehearth in two weeks. Which in turn takes a mining ship out of action, which in turn means we produce less fuels. It can't go on like this."

"The mammoths will start falling too. We're running low on food and water for them." Manda shook her head, her deep ginger hair shifting about her large shoulders. "And I don't have enough medicinal stock to keep as many healthy as I did last time."

"We need to send Snow's End a message," chipped in someone further down the table. "Show them we're serious. This can't be how it goes. There'll be less and less of us left every year."

The Mayor remained silent as the rest of the table, the rest of the hall, talked on. No doubt there were similar talks in all the halls, all the rows of them that stretched out and out into the stark black and white of the Great Mines. It was a bleak place, painted like black oils on white paper. The monotony drained the mentalities of the workers. The Mayor knew about such effects that scenery can have on the minds of people; he had been educated in Snow's End on the subject. But there they had taught it with a detached wonder. Here, it was direct and it was chilling. You see, it was rarely the cold that killed; it was ropes around necks and knives to wrists that killed the people during the blizzard season. The Mayor would never grow used to it. The news was always harrowing. More and more each time.

He stood up, and the people around him went quiet, as if he had stood to make a speech. Instead he simply itched his chin - a feat in itself, getting through the thicket of greying beard - and said: "I'm going to check on the mammoths."

Each hall had an equally large and durable stable to the back, in which were housed the giant furry creatures. It was quieter in here, warmer, with the heat of the braziers and the heat of the mammoths themselves. It smelt like straw and smoke. He wound his way through the legs as thick as he was wide, feeling the few curious trunks brush his hair as he passed, or tap his shoulder in curiosity. He avoided their formidable tusks, although he had to admit they were careful with how they wielded them. They were intelligent, inquisitive animals, with their little glittering eyes behind shaggy fringes of hair. He found the one he was looking for amid the crowd.

"Muncey." He smiled; it wasn't evident through his beard, but the mammoth always seemed to know. "How are you, boy."

He gave Muncey a heavy pat on his giant flank, as he would give a worker on the shoulder. They were workers, after all. Calm and docile, they hefted the buckets of coal and pulled machinery free of the ice, all for a trough of overripe vegetables and a dry place to doze at night. They were used to prying bodies from wreckage too. They never were quite as docile then. They knew, thought the Mayor. They knew that these deaths were unneeded, unjustifiable. They would raise their trunks and let out a most mournful sound into the sky. Muncey's trunk prodded his face and chest. The Mayor leaned against it.

"What will I do?" he murmured. He knew Muncey couldn't answer, but he listened. "I know they want me to do something. But I can't write home. They've as good as disowned me."

A long exhale from Muncey. Or perhaps it was just a normal exhale for such a giant set of lungs. The Mayor let the majority of his weight rest against the mammoth.

"I thought I'd make a difference, being here. Instead I've just been forgotten." A sigh. "Tinsley would kill me if he saw me right now. If he's even still out there."

He had met Tinsley years ago, in a pub in the Grand Market, and they had discussed - drunkenly - how a person could fight against the censorship that had begun to fall atop their heads. It had been a simple friendship, the history between their homes placed aside to discuss this common threat. They had exchanged addresses, and written for quite some time. Tinsley had described protests on the Roost, rallies against the censorship, and then violence in the streets, and then came the silence. He had stopped receiving letters from Tinsley. He wrote to him for quite a while anyway. Nothing ever came back. It had unsettled him immensely. He wasn't naive; Tinsley was dead. Most likely. Hopefully. The alternatives weren't pleasant.

Similar stories had come from all over the south; crackdowns on any sort of innovation, people beaten, arrested, executed. Now, your mind must be displayed before the Council before you can use it. There were even rumours of a great prison in Arcania, for people with minds too brilliant, too threatening. He had been to Arcania once, before the Discovery, and it had been the most bright and magical place he had ever visited, with buildings that towered higher than any mining machine he'd ever seen. Brazier flames would flash different colours for different holidays, lighting up the streets in jewel tones, and there was always an invention being tested at every street corner, billowing steam and spraying sparks. He had seen a giant rectangular structure with a round face and three arms that ticked to tell the time. He had seen a long tube with glass at both ends that allowed the user to see into the stars. He had seen rich red wine being made there, and tasted his first cup, and marvelled at how sweet and fresh it was compared to the harsh spirits in the Mines.

But the main attraction had always been the library; a building with endless stories and hundreds of tables and armchairs, at which sat all kinds of Arcanians in their lavish clothing - metallic gold threading and lace detailing and tassels on deep blue and black velvet - with heavy leather-bound books on laps and tables as they discussed whatever they wished to discuss, all day and night, over hot teas and coffees and melted chocolate. Candles were always burning, hanging from the ceilings in glistening chandeliers, stuck in the centre of dark wood tables with pale yellow wax dripping down the copper stands. The Mayor wondered what it was like now, if no one was allowed to speak their minds. Did anyone sit at those tables? Was the library shut? Were certain rows of books restricted by chains and locks? It saddened him to think about it.

He sat with Muncey for a while, pondering his very limited options. His brain was dead with the darkness that weighed heavy just outside the walls. He could hear the wind howling, the snow pounding against the steel like so many angry fists. He wished he could borrow some of its rage, only for a moment. There had to be an answer for all the suffering he had seen, last year, the year before, and no doubt this year, and next. He was sure there was an idea in his head. It just needed to be sparked.

* * *

“Well, the Arcanians invented alcohol.”

“No they didn’t. Alcohol was made in the Great Mines.”

“Well the Arcanians invented alcohol that doesn’t blind you before it even reaches your tongue!”

The first stablegirl blew a raspberry. "Oh, don't be a wimp. What they drink up in the cold - now that's true alcohol."

"Well then I don't like true alcohol," said the second stablegirl, nursing her skin of wine. "This is much nicer."

The rain was falling in a light misty drizzle, and the division between the dust inside of the stable and the dust outside was a stark line that divided dark from light. It was a quiet night at this seaside inn, as it often was, and the stablegirls were enjoying their evening by lazing in the candlelight and sharing sweet wine they had stolen from the larder. The sea was only down the hill, and it lapped at the rocky beach. They could hear the steady swishing of the water. The first stablegirl reached for the wineskin, taking a hearty mouthful.

"Let's play a game," she said. "Keep naming the cities. If you repeat one or get stuck, you have to drink."

"Okay." The second stablegirl flopped back into the hay. "The Roost."

"The Temples."

"Snow's End."

"Gravehearth."

"The... um..."

"Drink!"

The sound of footsteps outside made them pause in their laughter. They looked at each other. A guest, at last? Looking to make use of the stables? A momentous night indeed. They corked the wineskin and leaped to their feet and dusted off each other's shirts and trousers, picked straw out of each other's hair. A man appeared in the open end of the stables. He was tall and slim, and a dark shape shifted behind him on four great long legs.

"Is this stable empty?"

One of the girls nodded, mutely. "...Are you... Are you a rider?"

"Do I need to answer that?" He led the way into the stable, and his mount followed, just about managing to fit in the doorway. The stablegirls backed away instinctively. "I need somewhere to put her up. You two can handle horses, right?"

They both nodded, eyes stuck to the beast and its bright yellow eyes that stared right back.

"Good. The tack is treated the exact same." He gave the beast a pat on its flank before turning away. "I'll be back in the morning."

"Will it hurt us?" squeaked one of the girls.

Tinsley stopped at the door, looking back over his shoulder at her. He appeared to ponder the question, head tilting from side to side. Then he shrugged, already continuing on. "Never has before."

The sea mist was beginning to set in. It was cool and light, brushing his skin with hundreds of minuscule fingers, although his face still felt hot. His head was pounding with a headache that had only gotten worse as he'd travelled. He was on the east side of the mainland, he was almost certain. On the coast too, despite the fact he had never exactly been fond of the sea. But this coast... It was different from the other side of the mainland. It was silent, and the sea was black, and the sand was replaced with gritty rocks. At night, fog rolled in without a care for any sailors who might be out there. There were no animals, no birds singing, no sheep or cows plodding about. He turned away and continued on towards the inn and its welcoming lighted windows. He didn't enjoy looking at the sea. He couldn't help but feel that it was looking back.

Gods, his head hurt. It throbbed at his temples. He rubbed his palms into his eyes, and accepted whatever food the innkeeper said was on offer.

* * *

The mist had lifted from the island - north, south, east, and west, it rested on the water, observing, watching. The air was still. The moon was clear and bright in the black sky, a most dazzling circle. It was a perfect night for the future.

Ricky stood in front of the silver bowl, knife to his right and candle to his left. He placed the sharp edge of the knife against his palm, curled his fingers around it, and opened one quick slice in his skin. It stung, but he had felt worse - in fact, he was feeling worse right at that moment, and had been for a few days, his head aching harder and harder every hour. He couldn't stand without wincing, his vision sparkling white. He had to find out why.

He placed the knife aside - the edge glistened with red - and clenched his cut hand over the centre of the seawater. A few oily drops of blood were squeezed out, and mixed in the water like ink, curling quickly. Ricky lifted the candle, and using the knife, reflected the light onto the blood and water. His eyes narrowed as he attempted to interpret the patterns, the images the inky blood swirled itself into. He watched for quite a while - it took longer to focus with his head hurting so much - but it soon drew him in, like a ship under a wave.

He saw a giant man in a sweeping black cloak standing in a world of white. There was bright red behind him and bright red before him. He walked silently onward.

He saw a woman at a wooden table, with skin as black as night and a mind as bright as day; it spilled from her eyes and illuminated everything she looked at. In one hand sat a quill. He didn't have to look at the looping letters; he knew she was writing the path the world would take.

He saw a grey man on a grey throne. In one wrinkled hand sat a skull, and in the other sat a human heart, still beating, still bloody. It dripped from his wizened fingers. His eyes were hidden behind white lenses set in golden frames, but Ricky could tell he was somehow watching him. This was odd.

His headache suddenly intensified, it pounded, it almost made him scream in pain. In his pulsating vision he saw a tall man on a black rocky beach. But there was more to this one; he could smell the salt of the sea, he could hear the waves lapping against the pebbles on the beach. He had divinated only once or twice, but he'd never felt a vision so real. He struggled to find symbols, to understand their meaning. Everything was incredibly... normal.

The man on the beach stared at him, directly at him, and said: "Are you alright?"

* * *

Tinsley inclined his head at the lack of a reply, but he didn't get to be curious for too long. His headache grew harsh, and he gripped his head with a curse, as if trying to hold his skull together. The man in the water did the same, crying out, falling to his knees in the surf. He was wearing clothes fit for the sea, and had the most intricate markings on what was visible of his skin. His patterned arms started lashing out in the water, panicking, and all of a sudden he was gone.

Tinsley's headache receded to the throbbing from beforehand. It seemed harmless now, easily ignored compared to what he had just felt. He splashed into the water, reaching out into the mist, calling out.

"Hello? Are you alright?"

Nothing but the silence answered, mist brushing off the sea. Tinsley stood for a moment, baffled. His heart picked up. Was he hallucinating? Perhaps he should have eaten; his mind was weak. Or was there someone out there in the water? Drowning? Being pulled away in a current? Was it one of those creatures from the stories, ones that appeared as a temptingly beautiful person only to lure you to your watery grave? The wind was picking up, the water was beginning to grow frothy. And it was cold, he could feel its iciness through his boots. He wasn't a child, he knew no such creatures existed. There was someone out there. He couldn't leave them to freeze, to drown, to die. Why was he even hesitating? Back at home he never would have hesitated in a moment like this. He would've jumped to action, brave, heroic, terrified but knowing he was doing the right thing.

He turned away and sprinted for the stables.

* * *

Ricky's eyes fluttered. He could feel coolness against his forehead. He heard the dripping of water into a basin, the wringing of a cloth. Sheets were warm and soft through his shirt. His mouth felt strangely dry - he swallowed, attempting to sit upright, and winced. His headache was still there, in his skull, thrashing around.

"Ricky?"

He blinked a few times before looking over his shoulder. The chieftess sat by the door to his room, under the brazier, her hands clenched on her lap, worried. "Oh. Sorry, I didn't-"

She interrupted him, speaking to the priestess present. "His nose is bleeding again."

He lifted a hand to his nose, and indeed felt warm blood against his skin. He let the priestess wipe it away with a cloth. Then he looked back at the chieftess, and he felt a little concerned. She seemed angry. He wondered if she had just woken up, although it didn't seem so; her cloaks swaddled her, and her dark hair was braided at the back of her head and held in place with a bronze pin. She stared at him for a moment.

"What were you doing that made you faint?"

He cleared his throat, awkwardly. He looked from her to the priestess, the latter of which took the hint and left. "I, um, I was divinating."

"Alone."

"I've never had any problems with it before. I-"

"That is a very dangerous activity, Ricky." She came a bit closer, and reached out to touch the back of his hand. "And you used your blood."

He felt his face flush. He couldn't look at her directly. "I didn't have oil."

"Oil and blood are not interchangeable, you know that." She sat down on the edge of the stone slab, and he sat up too, trying to ignore his headache. "We all know you're confident in your abilities. But you can't be putting yourself in danger like you did. You could have killed yourself."

He tried his best to scoff. "No I wouldn't have. It was just normal divination. I must have-"

"It was a full-body vision," she said reprimandingly. "Your clothes were - still are - wet, and you weren't on the beach when we found you." Then she went quiet. "A full-bodied vision hasn't been achieved in recent history, you know. Perhaps not even in ancient history. Only rumours of them." She reached out a hand and brushed it through his hair, smiling a strange sad smile. "You can't risk yourself like that. Not without anyone with you."

He nodded, gaze still averted. "Sorry."

She smiled at him. He smiled back. She was always so kind to him. He wondered why she had come to make sure he was okay. He tried not to let it get to his head, but he did hope some other priests saw it, or heard of it. The more she singled him out at feasts or came to him for advice, the more he was certain that one day he'd be the high priest, who would be directly responsible for interpreting the gods for the chief and chieftess. Although the chief never seemed quite as fond of him as the chieftess did. Ricky didn't mind, however. The chieftess was the one in charge.

"What did you see?" she asked quietly, still looking into his dark eyes with her equally dark ones. "When you divinated?"

"I saw a man on a beach. I thought it was just a normal vision but he spoke to me, as if he could see me. Then my head hurt so badly I had to put out the candle."

"Your head hurt?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

"Yeah." He shrugged, getting to his feet, acting as if it wasn't a bother that his brain was trying to escape his skull. "Just for the past few days. I'm sure it'll go away soon."

She stood in front of him for a moment, searching his face with concern. She was about the same height as him, but older, with her hair beginning to grey at the roots, and fine lines appearing around her eyes and mouth. "Take some willow bark before bed. It'll help you sleep."

He nodded. "I'll do that."

Her eyes lowered. "Your nose. It's bleeding."

"Oh." He wiped at it with the back of his hand. "I'm sure it's nothing. Just a bit of stress from... I promise I won't try what I did again."

She seemed satisfied with this, but only just. She let him be, closing the wooden door behind her. Ricky sat down on the edge of his bed, staring at the faint smears of blood his nose had left on his hands. His cut palm had been bandaged by the priestess. What _had_ he been thinking, taking such a risk? It had seemed so necessary to him at the time, but now it appeared as it was; lunacy. He tried not to think of the tales of sea fever, where priests and priestesses were driven mad by the ocean, convinced that the gods were telling them to act in certain ways, risking life and limb for rituals that had become a necessity in their minds. All recorded cases but one had ended in a swift and sudden death. Ricky dabbed at his nose once more, just to make sure it wasn't still bleeding. The priestess returned with some willow bark to relieve his headache. Then he got undressed and attempted to fall asleep. He couldn't. It was getting worse and worse.

* * *

"Lucy."

She stopped by the bed, closing her eyes. She had thought he was asleep. "Yes?"

"You went to visit him, didn't you."

"Yes, I did." She got under the covers, and he sat up beside her. The fire was low in the stone grate at the end of their bed. "I was worried about him, Mikel."

"You can't be singling him out. You don't look too different from him. People will know."

She stayed quiet for a moment, undoing her hair from the bronze pin. "He used his blood."

A silence, but for the final cracklings of the fire. "He what?"

"He used his blood. In a ritual. He had a full-body vision."

Mikel was watching her, his blue eyes bright even in the dark. "Which means what. That you've been telling the truth this whole time? I don't think so."

She didn't bother arguing. She lay down, resting her head on the pillow and pulling the fur blankets up over her shoulders before simply saying: "We'll see."

* * *

The Mayor had remained in with Muncey for quite some time, brushing his shaggy hair and checking his tusks for any chips and his teeth for any rotting and his this for any that just so he wouldn't have to return to the hall and all that impending misery. Unfortunately, after an hour or so, it came for him.

"Mayor! Mayor!" The mammoths huffed and sighed as they shuffled out of the way of someone running madly towards him. "Someone has set themselves on fire outside!"

The Mayor's bushy brows knitted. "Huh?"

It was true. He could see it from the main doors to the hall. There was a flaming figure staggering around in the snow, arms waving madly, like a marionette being pulled about on wild strings. The Mayor opened his mouth and shouted for water over the rest of the raised voices, shouted for buckets of water. Manda shook her head, taking his arm.

"We can't. We- His injuries... He'll die of them. He will. I don't have enough medication at my disposal, and it will be painful, I don't think-"

The Mayor had heard enough. He couldn't look at the figure any longer. His heart was pounding in his ears. Is this what they had been driven to? He was certain he could hear them screaming. He started forwards, yanking an ax from a block of damp wood. The snow was knee-deep, but he waded through it with furious, determined steps. When he was close, close enough to smell the burning meat, the burning hair, close enough to see the flesh charring, to hear the screaming, he took the ax in both hands and swung it hard and fast. He separated the person's fiery head from their body in one swing. The two pieces remained burning, sputtering, but the screaming stopped, the pain stopped. The Mayor dropped the ax; it sank into the horribly pure white of the snow. His eyes were hot with tears, for so many reasons. He turned and stormed back towards the hall, the door crowded with watchers. They separated to let him through.

Chunks of snow melted from the end of his cloak, dissolving into the floor. Still he continued walking, right to the table he usually ate at. He stepped up onto the seat, and then onto the table itself. When he looked out at the hundreds of eyes staring at him, he felt terrified. But the indignance in his chest had to be let out somehow, or it would burn him up and leave him a hollow husk of a man. He opened his mouth.

"When this blizzard ends," he began, raising his voice so he could be heard above the furnace, "we walk."

A silence. A voice called out: "Walk where?"

"To Snow's End. I've had enough of this. We have all had enough of this." He could feel the anger rising in him. It was an emotion he rarely felt, but this was the first time he had an outlet. "Why do we have to send them luxuries just so they'll give us necessities? They will not undergo starvation and true cold. They will survive and continue treating us like dogs." He let out a single dry laugh. "The last glasshand to bother showing their face here was me! And that was ten years ago!"

A murmur of agreement, a ripple in the pond. He continued on.

"Every damned year we send dozens of bodies to Gravehearth. This year we only send one, and it's the one outside those doors right now." He took a breath. "This is the first blizzard of the season. It will be short, and the gap between it and the next will be long. Long enough for them to know we're coming."

"What will we do once we get there?" called a woman.

"We will demand change, and if need be we will fight for change. I will never be able to forgive myself if I let the next generation grow up how you have all grown up." He readjusted his cloak around his shoulders, the fur shifting against his neck. "Start packing up what you need. Food, clothing, weaponry. We leave when the snows settle." He moved his gaze to Manda, and he descended back into the crowd to her. "Gather the people who know this land best. We'll plot a course to the mining ships, then cross the lake and on from there."

They wrapped the body in cloth. No one was eager to identify it. There was enough heartbreak already to go around. But now there was an undercurrent of something that hadn't visited the Mines in decades; excitement, and hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would like to thank the-nervous-artist on tumblr for giving me the mammoth's name, Muncey. the mayor and muncey. i like it


	3. The Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I read, or nourish long thoughts in my mind. And I forget the world in the sweet silence, imagination lulls me" _\- Alexander Pushkin__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skaadshotn did really great art of Ricky's visions from last chapter !! i really liked it so i thought i'd share it on here too :)
> 
> https://skaadshotn.tumblr.com/post/190737231959/i-have-become-a-big-fan-of-icantwritegood-stories

Tinsley's mind was still drowning in the choppy waves. He had never fallen off mid-flight before - not when awake and sober, anyway - but the wind had been harsh and strong, and a heavy mist had settled in. He wasn't much of a swimmer. In fact, all he could do was paddle, and badly at that. But in his boots and heavy coat and with his pistol and rapier hanging from his belt? He should have gone right under, and not resurfaced. Yet there had been a strange pressure underfoot, as if some of the water had turned firm, allowing his mouth and nose to stay above the surface with a bit of kicking and splashing. He must have passed out from the cold, as everything had gone black as night. Everything still _was_ black as night. Was he dead?

His eyes flickered. For a few seconds he waited for the headache that had been plaguing him for days to hit him. It didn't come. He let his eyes open fully. The room was cool and the air was damp. There was vague grey light peeking in through small gaps in the stone, hardly penetrating the dark. He breathed in; the smell of the sea filled his head. He could hear it too, not too far away, swishing softly, echoing through the stone. He sat upright, and immediately froze. His clothes had been changed, but for his trousers and boots. The cotton shirt on him wasn't enough; he felt entirely naked. He pulled the sleeves down as far to his wrists as they'd go, but the further they went the more his neck and shoulders were bared, and vice versa. For a few minutes he fought with the shirt, muttering curses. The room was gradually growing clearer as his eyes adapted to the dark, and his gaze found a wooden door set into the far wall. He got to his feet and crossed to it, tugging at the handle. It was locked. He debated hammering at it and demanding to have his coat and under-jumper returned to him, but the idea of someone seeing him without them was uncomfortable. The thought that someone had changed him, seen his bare skin, caused a most violating feeling in him. He hugged the cotton shirt tighter with folded arms.

"Hello?" He waited for a response before calling out again. "Where am I?"

It wasn't bitterly cold enough to be Snow's End. It was as cool and grey as Gravehearth, but that was much too far away. He wouldn't be worried about his location, if it wasn't for the fact the door was locked. He pressed his ear to the wood and whistled sharply through his teeth. Nothing. She wasn't there. The panic truly set in.

"Hello!" He banged his fists on the door, shaking it in his thick iron hinges. "Give me back my stuff! HELLO!"

After a few minutes of this, something rattled in the door, and it was shoved open. Tinsley backed away swiftly, arms folded across his chest, like a damsel in a nightgown. He glared at the newcomer; a woman in a long dark greatcoat. In her hand was his coat and jumper. He wanted to grab them off her, but his face was burning with the amount of skin he was showing. The woman didn't seem to notice; in fact, she was wearing a similar shirt under her coat.

"We couldn't leave you in them," she explained. "They would have made you ill."

"Just put them down and leave."

She shrugged before doing so. Tinsley caught a glimpse of intricate blue patterns on her skin before she straightened up and left. He waited until he heard the door lock before yanking the offending shirt off him and pulling on his jumper; the high neck and long sleeves had him feeling much more settled. He picked up his coat. They had washed it. The colour was once again a brilliant blue, and the gold designs hammered into the shoulders and chest and arms of it were gleaming. He hadn't seen it so neat for more than a year now. The inside lining was clean and warm, the fur made white again. He put it on, but it felt heavier than before, making his shoulders slump. He buckled the belt around his waist and slipped his goggles on over his head to hang around his neck. Then he paused. They hadn't given him his rapier, yet they'd given him his pistol. He wondered what that was about.

"Hey!" He strode over to the door and gave it three indignant knocks. "I'd like the rest of my things, please."

He went quiet, eyes narrowing. He could hear voices murmuring outside the door. He pressed his ear to it again. Nothing became clearer, until a woman's voice said: "I'll get him ready."

Tinsley stepped back from the door, quick-sharp. With a sudden urgency, he started whistling as loudly as he could.

* * *

The library was sparsely populated. People sat alone at tables with solitary cups of hot coffee and tea. Candle wax dripped morosely from brass holders. One scholar had a finger out, catching the separate drips from her own candle, watching it harden and build and harden and build on her skin. A thick leather-bound book was open in front of her - _The History of Gods and Lies -_ but she wasn’t finding it too interesting. She never found anything that was shoved into her hands interesting. Her mind was growing slower everyday. She wanted to search out her own books, her own interests, and devour them alone in the library, at her table, hidden away. But no. It was read what you were given, and do it in the light, where the Librarians could see you. They stood around the outskirts of the room, with their flashy helmets and equally flashy spears and velvet capes that brushed the ground. It was all incredibly ridiculous, she thought. She wasn’t a criminal. Nobody in that room was a criminal.

Once again, her mind wandered back to the restricted portion of the library. It was on the top floor, chained up and locked away. What secrets lay in there? If she closed her eyes and listened she could almost hear the dripping of information from books ripe and juicy with knowledge; she wanted to disappear upstairs and take a bite out of each one. Or even half a bite. She'd even settle for a nibble. The book in her hands right now was shrivelled and dry. She forced herself to turn another page; it tasted like dust on her tongue.

_"...many believed that, observing the timeline, people's belief gave power to the gods, when it reality it was mere fabrication brought on by country-wide hysteria and delusion, which was swiftly left behind once scientific explanations came to light..."_

She chewed on the end of her fountain pen, forcing herself to stop instantly. Her father had given it to her. He wasn't dead, but he was far away, and was forbidden from leaving where he currently was - not forbidden by law, but forbidden by oath. He had been slightly disappointed at her turn away from Gravehearth, but back then Arcania had been bright and brilliant, and she had begged him to let her move. Now the cities were each as grey and cold as the other, and everyday more colour seemed to be drained from the world.

It was a few more minutes before the changing of the Librarians. They filed out, and even for those quick seconds the room seemed less stuffy, the candles brighter, but their replacements quickly dampened the lift. Francesca took her pocket watch from the folds of her cloak, flipping it open, listening to the familiar _tick, tick, tick_ of the tiny hands. A going-away gift commissioned by her father - the hands were fashioned to appear like the bones of spindly fingers, and the casing was a flat skull with an open mouth, as if laughing toothily. She smiled at it; she missed her father dearly, every day that passed.

She closed the watch - carefully, a soft _click_ in the silence - and slipped it back into her hidden pocket. Then she tried to refocus on the book. It was vaguely interesting, if one was interested in ancient civilization, where people grovelled at the seashore and treated the ocean with more respect than they did each other. Unfortunately she wasn't interested, and there were more books in the queue - _Gods: A Century of Fables,_ and _Mass Manipulation: The Ocean and Those Who Wielded It._ These books were a necessity before entrance to any School - out with the old world, and in with the new. She wasn't a fool. It was indoctrination, tried and tested. But she was certain, so certain, that after all this, she would be accepted into a School, and she would make a real change. She had to - it was why she was here, she was _certain_ it was why she was here. So she took a breath, and flattened the thin pages of _The History of Gods and Lies,_ and continued reading, her pen flickering across the smooth cream pages of the notebook under her hand as she did so.

_"...and some isolated settlements still worship the sea, and believe that one day a prophet will come forth and wake the gods anew. Of course, this is mere lack of intelligence on their part..."_

* * *

Ricky held the torch out in front of him, letting it enter the room before he did. It fluttered excitedly, just as his heart did. He knew it. He had known it the second he woke up with a clear head, the second he heard of the man washed up on the west beach. It was the man he had seen in his divination. The gods had sent him to the island, and Ricky must make use of him as he saw fit.

A muttered curse came from the dark, and he saw the sacrifice jerk his head away from the sudden light, but other than that he said nothing. He sat where he was, his wrists shackled to the table, a moody look on his face. He was still dressed quite grandly, if a little disheveled now; his boots were a fine leather, and so were his gloves, and a strange pair of spectacles were strapped around his neck. His coat was long, to his knees, with a slit either side. He watched Ricky come over, his head turned to face him directly, his eyes stern. Ricky set the torch down in one of the iron holders bolted into the stone wall - it bathed only half of each man in light, and left the rest in swimming shadows. Then Ricky sat himself down opposite the sacrifice, and watched him silently for a moment. He could tell from the badly-hidden confusion on the sacrifice's face that they were both now on the exact same page, the exact same line, the exact same word. Ricky remained a bit more in control of his emotions; he had witnessed inexplicable things many times before. This was just another to add to the ever-growing list.

"I saw you," he said, quite simply.

The sacrifice didn't reply for a moment. He seemed to be weighing something behind his eyes, his face still. "Does that mean we're friends? Because friends don't lock each other up in dungeons."

Ricky ignored the jibe. "Did you see me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you did."

"I don't think that's possible." The sacrifice turned his head away, disinterested, brushing any possibility of such an event aside. Surely it had been some strange dream, a memory recalled with extra fabrication. "Where am I, by the way?"

Ricky smiled. It wasn't a pleasant one. "I think you're exactly where you're meant to be."

"Am I dead?" continued the sacrifice, turning his eyes back to Ricky in genuine interest. "Is this the afterlife? I didn't think there was one. And now I wish there wasn't."

"You're not dead. Not yet." Ricky inclined his head, looking the sacrifice over. He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, and surely would have struck quite an impressive figure if he hadn't arrived in such a manner as he had. “There’s been complaints about the noise you’re making, by the way. Some whistling or other.”

The man arched an eyebrow. “I have complaints too, you know. Such as the damp.” He waved a gloved hand; the shackles rattled. “How do you people survive in this? Absolutely miserable.”

Ricky cocked his head the other way at the nonchalant attitude of the other man. “You have complaints about your accommodation?”

“Oh, a litany, yes.”

“Then let me provide some context.” Ricky spoke quietly, coolly, his eyes not leaving the sacrifice’s. There was a defiance in them that he wasn’t quite fond of. “There are cells here, further down in this building, where prisoners spend every waking and sleeping moment up to their chests in seawater. Would you like that?”

The sacrifice didn’t reply for a few seconds, although the set of his jaw made it clear he had some acidic response or other ready. He swallowed his words and said, quite clearly: “No.”

Ricky smiled. “Good. Now keep that in mind." He got to his feet and swanned to the table set against the wall, coat brushing the stone floor as he went. He poured a cup of wine, keeping his back to the sacrifice. "Care for a drink?"

"No."

Ricky raised his brows at this, sparing a glance over his shoulder at him. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," came the gravelly response.

"It's not poisoned." Ricky turned to face him, holding his own cup up, his eyes glittering. "Watch." He swallowed a mouthful, throat bared, before smiling devilishly. He held the cup aside with delicacy between thumb and middle finger, asserting its lack of a threat. "See? No need to be afraid."

The sacrifice didn't respond. He looked him over once - a look brimming with disapproval, lingering on the bare skin visible on his chest - before turning his head back to the table. "I don't drink."

"I could get you a cup of water."

"The only thing I want you to get me is out of here," came the response, icy with impatience. "I haven't done anything."

"You're awfully moody."

The sacrifice kept the dark look on his face when Ricky retook his seat across from him. "I have reason."

Ricky smiled at him over his cup. "Where are you from?"

"I'll answer that once you tell me where I am."

Ricky shrugged. "Fine. You're on Storm's Eye."

The stare he got was a blank one. "I've never heard of a place called Storm's Eye."

Ricky reached out a curious hand to touch the sacrifice's tightly-buttoned cuff. He'd never seen a piece of clothing like it; the fabric was thick and brightly coloured, and covered in gold gilding; the buttons and the buckle and the whorling designs down the sleeves and shoulders gleamed. "Well, where are _you_ from?"

The sacrifice jerked his arm away from Ricky's probing fingers with an offended scowl; the shackles rattled harshly. "The Roost. So you should know better than to start touching me."

"But I've never heard of such a place."

The sacrifice blinked a few times, looking him over again, slower this time. He had intelligent eyes, bright and sharp. "You've never heard of the Roost?"

"Never." Ricky downed the end of his cup, head tilted back, before getting up to refill it. "Are you sure about that drink?"

"I'm sure."

"You should have a cup. It'll be your last one."

A skipped beat. "What?"

"And why shouldn't I touch you?" continued Ricky, the wine glugging into his cup.

"No, no, let's backtrack a bit there. What did you just say?"

Ricky moved to the sacrifice, sitting up on the table beside him so that they were facing each other. "What do you think brought you here?"

"A whole book's worth of mistakes."

"Fate did." Ricky smiled at him. "You're important. You mean something. The gods brought you to me and I've decided what has to be done with you."

"The what? The gods?" The sacrifice stared at him, his face dropping. "Where the- You're a nutcase. The _gods?"_ He laughed sharply, and Ricky's brows drew together into a frown. "What planet are you on?"

Ricky's face was reddening somewhat. "Don't be disrespectful."

"You're talking about gods! You're clearly not all there." He tapped the side of his head with a long finger to emphasize his point. "Can you go and find someone sane for me to talk to? Please?"

Ricky's eyes narrowed. "I am sane."

"You most definitely are not."

"You don't believe in the gods?"

"No one believes in the gods, you crazy son of a bitch. What century are you from?"

Ricky glared at him. Then his face softened into something more dangerous. He reached out a hand and took the sacrifice by his jaw, tightening his grip as the man tried to pull away. Ricky smiled at him, oddly gentle given the fierceness with which his fingers dug into the sacrifice's cheeks, hard enough to leave marks. "You'll believe in them soon. Who else can you beg for mercy from, after all?"

The sacrifice swallowed hard, his brows knitted in an indignant frown. His gloved hands were clenched into fists. "Get your hands off me. Now."

"Mm." Ricky slipped off the table and to his feet, crossing to the wine again, taking a fresh cup and pouring a generous helping of wine into it. He brought it back to the sacrifice, placing it down in front of him. "I'd drink up if I were you. Garner some pleasure from life while you still can."

"Pleasure has never been a prominent theme in my life."

"Ah. That's a pity. And a waste of a life, in my own humble opinion." Ricky was at the door by now, torch back in his hand, the only source of light in the room. "Also, stop whistling or whatever you’re doing that’s annoying everyone so much. Okay?”

The sacrifice kept his eyes on Ricky, his face painted with sharp black shadows that flickered as the flames of the torch did. “What are you going to do with me.”

“That’s none of your concern."

“Uh, it is a little bit.”

Ricky suddenly grew tired of the man’s voice and its constant superior edge, as if he viewed Ricky and the islanders as nothing short of savages. He left. The door was locked and bolted behind him. He would be happy to see that man drown.

He was just down the dank hallway when he heard the whistling himself. It was a single high-pitched note, over and over, a lungful expelled with each one, but there was an edge of desperation to the sound, of fear. Ricky looked over his shoulder at the guard, who just shrugged her shoulders, unsure of what to say.

“He’s been doing that since he woke up.”

“Really?” The corners of Ricky’s mouth turned downward. “Huh. Strange, I’ll admit that.” Then he handed the torch to her, the flames hissing. “Well, let him whistle, if he wants. You know how some sacrifices get when they hear the gods are calling for their blood; it makes them act all sorts of ways.”

“Yes, it does.”

“But if he’s acting like that, perhaps he's hearing their call louder than most,” said Ricky, mulling it over for a moment before giving a single nod. “They want his blood sooner than they usually do. It will be tonight, then. Nothing good comes from making the gods wait.”

Ricky continued on with a bit of a skip to his step, and that inane whistling followed him all the way to the door, and for a little longer after he’d left. It seemed to reverberate in his skull; it was such a peculiar note, sharp and clear, like a breeze through marsh reeds. Ricky shook his head to throw it out of his mind as he made his way to the chieftess to let her know the news.

* * *

It was late now, an hour before midnight. Fran had left the library - after providing identification to the Librarians and allowing them to search her belongings, of course - and was now hurrying down a side street. She was late for a coffee with a friend, at their favourite coffee house, one that had so far escaped constant surveillance, although she did worry that one day she would turn up to its curtained door and brush it aside to find a Librarian awaiting her with one of the Rotas, those wide black books embellished with gold threading. Everything in this city was embellished with gold in one way or another, in order to hide the inherent ugliness that was beginning to seep into its very foundations.

Her friend was already there, smoking a long slim cigarette. Fran didn't know her name, and her name wasn't known in return. It was safer that way. Fran shook her head at an offer of tea from the copper pot in the centre of the table, hanging over the small open flame set into the wood there. The table that had been chosen was a good one, set back in the corner, with draping velvet curtains above and behind. The woman had been reading, and it was a book that interested Fran immediately.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, quietly. Everyone in the coffee house spoke quietly. It was easier to hear the sound of approaching footsteps that way. "I had to finish a chapter I was on. You know how it is; can't leave a chapter halfway through."

The woman smiled back, brushing her dark hair back behind her ears. "I know. Makes you feel like you haven't achieved anything."

Fran nodded at the book. "What are you reading?"

"A friend gave it to me." She leaned forwards, whispering. "It's not permitted. I didn't find it in the list, but I didn't find it among the forbidden books either."

Fran stared at it, wide-eyed. "Can I see?"

"Yes, but be careful." The woman passed it over, handling it like it was made of glass, and each page would shatter with even too heavy of a breath. "It was written in the north. The Great Mines."

"No way. How far it's come!" Fran opened the heavy wooden cover - it was bound in the old way, with leather straps holding the wooden front and back together, and a buckle to keep the book closed. Her eyes scanned the front page. Some of the lettering had faded, cracked, but the words were still somewhat visible. "It's in a bad way, isn't it?"

"Yes. That's why I wanted to show you it. Your father lives in Gravehearth, doesn't he?"

"Yes."

"And you enjoy transcribing things, don't you?"

"Ever so much." Fran ran her fingertips over the frail paper of the first chapter. _Lightning and How To Use It._ "More than anything else in the world."

The woman smiled, her dark eyes glittering excitedly. "You could transcribe this, couldn't you? And take your new copy to your father. I know the Council has no true power in Gravehearth."

Fran blinked. It was true. They had no true power there, but only because the people in Gravehearth had never shown hostility, or threatened to break rules. She looked back down at the book. It was almost singing to her, its pages trembling with all the knowledge it wanted to share with her. Lightning and how to use it! How could she refuse such a book, if that was the title of its very first chapter? "...I could try."

The woman reached over and placed her hand on Fran's, giving it a squeeze. "That's brilliant. Brilliant news."

It was settled. Fran would hurry to transcribe the chapters - summarizing if necessary, seeing as time was of the essence - and then sweep her new copy away to Gravehearth to hide it in her father's dusty library. Fran knew she needed to do it, and do it well, if she hoped for it to become a regular occurrence. A fresh book every month, just waiting to be saved! She couldn't possibly refuse. She just hoped her father thought the same.

Outside she and her friend parted ways with a quick handshake, as was customary in the city, and she took off back into the main street, the heavy book tucked under her cloak, in her satchel. The cobbled street was humming with murmured conversations on street corners, people who nodded wisely and twirled impressive beards with gnarled fingers and tried not to let their arms shake with the multiple books being carried to and fro between the schools that towered above. What buildings they were. The School of Storms and Skies was by far the tallest, its spires visible no matter where one found themselves. The School of Flora and Fauna was by far the largest, glass botanical gardens that sparkled during the day and glimmered at night, squawks and roars and howls constantly emitted from the buildings and the looming cages that peeked over the walls. But the richest, by far, was the School of the Past and the Future. It was made of various buildings that had been connected with bridges of all shapes and styles, some stone and open-sided, some encased in glass that made it look as if you were walking on air, and if you looked down there would be nothing but the ground far below. It was the most prestigious School of the hundreds that were in Arcania, but Fran had never taken a liking to it. The Council was seated there, permanently, and all nationwide conferences took place there too. Information went in, and sometimes it never came back out. This was applicable to scholars too.

Behind the School, on the island that was connected _only_ to the School, loomed Greatlight - from a distance, a lighthouse, but up close, a prison. That's where they kept the scholars, whispered the rumours. The wildminds. Fran stared up at the great sweeping light that spun over the city and out to sea, over the city and out to sea, slow and steady and without pause. The book in her bag suddenly felt ten times heavier than it had. Any second she expected the light to suddenly drop to her, the great bright eye staring, knowing, but she knew that was just her being paranoid. Nonetheless, she hurried home, and took the quieter streets on the way.

* * *

A respectful crowd had gathered early on the grasses around the pit. The wind was cool and damp and tugged at cloaks and hoods and locks of hair, making it seem as if the people were underwater, and Ricky was viewing them from on board a ship. He was early too; the weather had swiftly worsened over the past few hours, and a storm was on the horizon, so it was best to get this sacrifice done and hope the gods would ease their wrath before it hit their shores.

He could see a struggle occurring down in the pit, a few guards dragging the sacrifice to the stake in the centre. Ricky took the steps down into the wet and the dark (the steps were cut into the marshy walls, and winded along the side of the pit), and by the time he reached the group they were forcing the sacrifice’s hands back above his head to hook the shackles onto the stake. He was much taller than any of them, by a head at least, and they fought to reach his hands when he held them above his head. Ricky observed him in silence for a few minutes, half his face in darkness, and the other in the flickering light of the torch. Then he said: “Stop.”

The guards stopped, and they each seemed a little embarrassed by their struggle. The sacrifice leaned back against the stake, his hands still above his head, out of harm’s way. He was smiling, deviously. Ricky smiled back.

“You think you’ll avoid your end by playing games, do you?”

The sacrifice raised his eyebrows; they were neat and sharp, just like the rest of his face. “It’s not my fault you’re all so tiny. I mean, is this place cursed? Is that why you’re all the size you are?”

Ricky wasn’t insulted. He was curious. He stepped forwards, raising the torch near the sacrifice’s face, close enough to make him tilt his head away, eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to say that where you’re from, everyone is as tall as you?”

“The majority, where I’m from. Bit more mixed on the mainland.”

“You’re not from the mainland?”

“Hey, listen, I could tell you my whole life story if you’re so interested. Just get these shackles off me and give me a pot of tea and we’ll be laughing.”

Ricky spared a grin. “Tempting. But unfortunately, the gods aren’t patient beings.”

“Oh come on. Don’t tell me you guys seriously believe in all that horseshit. You can’t really be so isolated from normal society.”

Ricky cocked his head, curious. “Normal society? What’s that like.”

“Normal. You just said it.”

“And we’re not normal?”

“You’re all goddamn insane.” The sacrifice was careful to keep his hands raised, but it seemed as if his arms were tiring, trembling a little. “Barbaric. You can’t sacrifice people. Do you understand how illegal that is now?”

“It’s not illegal here. It’s necessary. For the storms.”

“How about, when it storms, you all just stay inside your disgusting little huts and then come out when the storm’s gone. Good idea, yeah? Now let me go.”

Ricky looked him over with vague interest. “Hm. No, I don’t think that’s going to happen.” Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and fearsome. Ricky raised a dark eyebrow at the sacrifice’s face. “Hear that?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a mischievous whisper. “They’re hungry.”

The sacrifice gritted his teeth, looking down his pointed nose at him. “You could do with a visit to Arcania. They’ll tell you all about thunder and why it happens and how it’s most definitely _not_ giant beings hungry for blood.”

Ricky cocked his head again, a bit further than before. “Arcania?”

“You’re kidding, right? You know that there’s more places in the world than this shitty little island?”

Ricky pursed his lips. Then he shrugged. “I don’t care, really. If the people are anything like you, I’m very much happy to keep my distance.” He turned to the guards. “Just chain him to the ground.”

“What?” The sacrifice shouted after him, sounding rightly furious. “Get back here, you little son of a fuck!”

Ricky ascended the steps, and by the time he had reached the top the storm was beginning to darken the sky above, and the sacrifice had started that irritating whistling again, although sharper, more panicked than before. The guards finished hammering the iron hook into the floor of the pit, fixing the sacrifice’s shackles to it so that he was on his knees, before making their way up the steps in a somber procession. Icy droplets of rain began making pockmarks in the marshy dirt, darkening the cloaks and hoods of the crowd. The wind was picking up, fiercer now, and the gulls were screaming above, wheeling in circles, stirred up by the brewing storm. Ricky held his torch aloft, standing where the sacrifice could see him, and he felt just a bit more powerful than he usually did with the wind whipping his hair and the man in the pit on his knees below him. The whistling had gone quiet, finally, and the sacrifice was preparing himself for the onslaught of water waiting outside the gate, which in turn was waiting for the lever to be pulled by the guard, who in turn was waiting for the signal from Ricky, who in turn wasn’t giving it. There was something about the sacrifice’s poise, an excitement, a relief that Ricky had never seen in a person in his position before. Ricky let out a sharp sigh; it wouldn’t be as satisfying if the sacrifice didn’t scream.

Then a scream rang out. For a split second, Ricky thought he imagined it, for it most definitely hadn’t come from the sacrifice; it was too high, more of a screech, and impossibly loud, and as he processed what the source could have been it rang out again. He turned, the sputtering torch held aloft, squinting into the rain, and then he saw it. His mouth fell open, and he heard exclamations rise from the crowd gathered as they turned their heads to follow his gaze. The voices rose sharply into cries, and this made the descending creature screech again, and the people instinctively scattered, shrieking about demons and dragons and mutated seabirds. Ricky stumbled backwards, falling onto his back and crossing his arms over his face as the creature put out his torch with a snap of feathery wings. It passed close enough that he could feel the rush of heat off it, that he could hear its fur and feathers rustling. 

He rolled onto his front, fingers digging into the wet grass, eyes wide as he watched the animal soar around the far side of the pit - its white wings almost spanned the entire depth from tip to tip - to land beside the sacrifice; it was large, heavy enough to splatter the damp floor as its scaly front feet and furry back paws sank into it. The sacrifice was almost jumping up and down with relief, dancing like some sort of jester, laughing delightedly. The creature dug its talons into the dirt around the embedded shackles and pulled them free with a fraction of the effort it took to put them there. Ricky watched in stunned silence, mouth open, as the sacrifice clambered onto the creature’s back, between its giant wings and behind its long, snow-white neck. It was most definitely some sort of bird - it had a big dull-coloured beak and two long dark feathers above its brilliant yellow eyes with black pinpricks for irises, which were staring right at Ricky. He scrambled back from the edge of the pit as the bird took off towards him with a leap and a flap of wings that had the grass above fluttering wildly. Ricky kept his head down and his hands linked behind it, but he heard the bird pass by above, he felt it, and through all the screaming and flapping and calls of alarm he heard a single triumphant laugh from the sacrifice. _Aha!_

Ricky turned onto his back to watch them go, propped on an elbow and eyes wide in shock. The bird and its rider flew up and up and up, until they were no larger than the seabirds, and then they were out of view in the rain. Ricky wiped said rain off his face, pushed his wet hair back, still staring at the space where the bird had vanished. Was it a bird? It couldn’t have been, it had the hind quarters of some sort of cat-like creature, and it had been too large, large enough to carry the sacrifice on its back with ease. Ricky sat upright, his head spinning with the sudden influx of questions in it; what was that creature? Were there more of them out there? What if it returned with more, for vengeance? What sorts of things existed out on the mainland, what sorts of animals roamed the earth, what sorts of people were brave and strong enough to ride them?

He posed all these questions and more once the meeting had been called in the great hall, while the storm raged outside, throwing sheets of rain against the rattling windows, howling through gaps in the stone.

“There is nothing out there,” said the chieftess with finality. “Nothing but danger that we would be better off not confronting.”

“But that danger just confronted _us,”_ persisted Ricky. He could hear murmurs of agreement from behind him. “It was sent here, it was an omen. You didn’t see it.“

"A great winged beast!” shouted a man.

“It screamed!” added another voice. “Like all the souls of the dead combined!”

“And it was ridden by a man,” said the chief dismissively. “Which means it is below us.”

Ricky shook his head. “No. No, it was intelligent, it helped the man escape. It freed his shackles like it knew exactly what they were. You have to listen to me. This is-”

“What are you proposing?” asked the chieftess, and although her voice was patient, it was beginning to tighten. “That we challenge this beast and its rider? And if there’s more of them? We would perish. We are not a military stronghold, Ricardo.”

“And an attack from the sky?” The chief laughed; it was clear he didn’t quite believe the tale, although Ricky had many witnesses. “How would you propose we defend ourselves from that?”

“I- I don’t know.” Ricky moved forwards, his hands spread, his eyes earnest. “But the rider mentioned more places out there. He mentioned other people, he mentioned a place called Arcania-” The chieftess’ face tightened, along with her husband's. “-and it sounded as if that was just one of _many_ places. If we’ve been found, they will come for us.” Ricky let out a heavy breath through his mouth. “So I propose we go to them first. It’s as you said; we wouldn’t be able to protect ourselves from a military attack. And it is better to go to them and offer peace than for them to come to us and decide war.”

“The gods will protect us,” said the chief sharply. “You should know this, Ricardo.”

“I know that the gods can’t act for us,” replied Ricky just as sharply. “They can only send us signs, and it’s up to us to interpret them.”

Another wave of murmurs from the people, supportive, agreeing. Ricky raised his chin, holding the gaze of the chief, who stared back with that odd hatred in his eyes again. What had Ricky done to deserve it? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps nothing.

“What I see now, Ricardo,” said the chief, cold and severe. “Is that you failed to make a sacrifice to the gods and now there is a storm ravaging our island. Because of this, you have used your power unfairly to convince those around you that your sacrifice escaped on a- a what? A giant bird?”

Ricky flushed, pressed his lips in a line. He realized that it did sound entirely ridiculous. But it had happened. He'd _seen_ it. "It wasn't just a bird. It had the back legs of a-"

"I've heard enough." The chief got to his feet, scowling down at him. "We all know you're a powerful man, Ricky, but you will not use your power to manipulate the minds of those who have put their faith in you."

"I didn't!" Ricky hated his voice; it sounded weak. "I-"

"Perhaps you didn't mean to," said the chieftess calmly. "But this wouldn't be the first time you didn't have control over your actions. A very recent example comes to mind."

Ricky suddenly felt incredibly alone in the middle of the hall. "But I saw it. It was real."

"That's enough." The chief spoke sharply, icily. "This meeting is over. Return to your homes and wait out this storm. And let us hope-" Another poisonous look at Ricky. "-that the gods are not too unhappy with us and our lack of offerings."

Ricky dropped his gaze to the bottom step before the high table. His face was burning. Yet there was a voice in his head, repeating the words over and over; _You are right, you are right, you are right._ The words blended, swelled, rolled over each other. It was a strange voice. It wasn't his.


	4. En Route

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“If something burns your soul with purpose and desire, it’s your duty to be reduced to ashes by it. Any other form of existence will be yet another dull book in the library of life.”_ \- Charles Bukowski

Dawn was on the horizon, extending its long, bright, feathery fingers into the dark sky, swallowing up the stars one by one. The sight of the stars was a good sign - no clouds, no storms. The sea was calm, expectant, waiting for the boat at the docks to release itself into its arms.

The boat floated alone, tethered to the grimy wooden docks. It was a modest catboat, a single mast with a single furled sail, the edges of which were fluttering impatiently. Its sailor was nowhere to be seen, although he had only been there moments beforehand, loading in the few objects he believed he would need.

Ricky was now, instead, in his small home, checking over his belongings, making sure he had brought enough things but also not too many things. He had packed some food and freshwater - which would hopefully do him until he reached the mainland - and some spare shirts and trousers. He had a dagger in his belt - a ceremonial one, with delicate carvings on the blade, although he wasn't sure why he was bringing it, seeing as he was altogether quite unfamiliar with wielding one offensively - and he had also packed the rapier that the rider had had on him when he'd been found on the west beach. The same beach where Ricky's boat was now docked.

Ricky studied the rapier's hilt, not for the first time. It was such an intricately carved thing, the gold spun and swirling, as if it had been twisted loosely while still molten before simply freezing into shape. No doubt it could be sold for quite a sum of money, if Ricky ended up having to sell it, which he expected he probably would. He drew it halfway from its scabbard - he didn't want to risk drawing it fully, he was afraid he'd cut himself with his lack of familiarity with it - and observed the sharpness of it. It had been recently sharpened, he thought, it's not a toy. In all honesty, it has probably taken lives.

"Ricky?"

He went still, feeling his face begin to burn. He turned slowly to face the tired-looking man in the doorway. "Oh. Anton. I... was going to say goodbye, but I thought you'd be asleep. Since it's so early."

The man blinked once, sleepily. "So it's true? You're leaving?"

"For a time." Ricky quietly slid the rapier back into its scabbard. "I can't stay here after seeing what I saw. Knowing that there's things out there." He jerked his chin up. "I don't care what the chief said. I saw what I saw."

Anton seemed at a bit of a loss, his clear-coloured eyes downcast in his freckled face. "Is there not enough for you here?"

Ricky averted his gaze. He chewed on his lip, fiddled with the cuff of his coat. "There's a voice in my head... It's telling me to leave. I think there's something out there for me to find."

"You know it's dangerous to try and decipher your own visions."

"It's not a vision," replied Ricky, somewhat exasperated. "It's... It's a calling. There's something out there that I'm meant to do, but I don't know what it is yet. And I'll go crazy if I don't find out."

"Ricky..." A hesitant pause. "I think you should stay. It sounds like you might have a touch of fever." His blonde brows raised, meaningfully. " _The_ fever."

"It's not-" Ricky trailed off into an impatient sigh. "This is why I didn't want you to find out. I knew you'd try and stop me. But I'm going." His fingers curled and uncurled at his sides. "I'm sorry."

Anton swallowed hard, hugging the blanket he had brought from his bed around him. "I trust that you know what's best for you. I do. But just..." He took a few steps forward, closing the space between himself and Ricky. There was something in his hand. Ricky's throat tightened. "...promise me you'll come back." He took Ricky's stiff hand, and in it he placed what he had been holding; a polished wooden ring, attached to a strip of leather, to wear around the neck. "Come back and marry me."

Ricky stared at the gift. It felt heavy in his hand, the weight of a promise he couldn't confirm he'd keep. Nonetheless, he closed his hand around the ring, and he let Anton kiss him on the forehead before murmuring: "I'll come back."

He left quite swiftly after this with a strange pressure in his chest at what had just happened. He wasn't sure why. He had always expected it. Yet now, with the world laid out before him, the thought of staying on Storm's Eye and marrying someone he had known his entire life seemed... bland.

The current carried him and his boat quietly and smoothly out to sea. No one would notice he was gone until morning. When he looked back over his shoulder, there were no candles lit in any windows of any huts. There was the single lighthouse on the highest cliff this side of the island, but its light was off, due to the fact that no one ever came or left, and it was only lit for when fishing boats were out late. There were no fishing boats this morning. It was just him.

Ricky's eyes narrowed at a lone figure on the cliff, wrapped in cloaks, dark hair blowing in the gentle breeze. She raised a hand to wave farewell. It was the chieftess. Ricky was a little surprised; she had known he was leaving, yet hadn't tried to stop him. He returned the wave, not that she would be able to see it from such a distance, but it simply wasn't in his nature not to return the gesture. All of a sudden, he realized he might miss the island and the people on it. But as he'd said to Anton, he'd come back. Sooner or later.

* * *

All the halls were deserted; he had checked each, trudging through the snow from door to door, struggling to open them against the high level of snow on the ground. The giant furnaces were cold, filled with nothing but ash. Tinsley pushed up on his tiptoes to reach in and poke a gloved finger into them; the surface cracked like a thin sheet of ice. They had been there for a while, it seemed. He hugged his coat to himself and stared around the hall. He was at quite a loss, now. He had expected the miners to still be here, and for the Mayor to be sitting at his usual seat, at the long table at the far end of the vast room. The worst sign was that even the mammoths were gone; the stables were dark and there was nothing in them but the remnants of straw bales and a faint frowsty smell. Tinsley had kicked around in there for a moment or two, until the heavy quiet had unsettled him enough to force him back into the hall. The wind outside was strong but soft, whistling through gaps in the walls. The tables were blank, not a bowl or a spoon left. It really seemed as if everyone had just upped and left. But why?

He felt a familiar weight on his shoulder, the smooth brushing of a beak against his coat. He gave her a light pat, distracted. “Where did they go, hm? Since when do they even leave this dump?” She responded with a faint clucking from the back of her throat; it rumbled against his shoulder. Tinsley chewed on his lip for a moment, eyes worried. “Well... I suppose there’s no point in hanging about.”

Outside was even eerier than in. The world was blank and white and cold as a corpse. In the far distance he could see the abandoned mining machines, reaching up into the sky, the metal seeming so brittle, like spilled ink on the whitest parchment. He wasn’t sure which he found creepier - seeing them so still, or seeing them when they were in operation, creaking and grating as they swung slowly, great industrial beasts. The lack of any visible worker was a bit worrying - fuel for the rest of the mainland was in high supply, as it always was, and scarcity would lead to nothing but trouble.

He hadn’t been so far north in a long time. It was a bleak and dreary place, not a tree for miles, and the way of life was punishing, which he had thought would be perfect for him to endure for the rest of his days. He deserved it.

Maybe he should’ve let that insane priest sacrifice him after all.

He probably would have, if the guy hadn’t been so self-righteous about all of it. And the look of shock on his face as Tinsley had flown over him. That would be a story to tell the Mayor - captured by a cult who still made sacrifices to the sea. And what a miserable place! _Almost_ on par with the Great Mines themselves. Tinsley cast a glance around the snowy landscape again, the icy wind making his face hurt. Yes, almost on par, but not quite. The Mines were hard to beat when it came to depressing scenery.

He felt the beak nudge him again, impatient. He took her reins and led her back outside before setting a foot in a stirrup and swinging himself up into the saddle, settling in, a sequence of fluid movements as familiar to him as breathing and blinking. His fingers were cold through his gloves, despite the downy feathers that lined the inside - waterproof, seeing as Sky had the crown of a waterbird, and had been a fluffy little thing when she was young - and he fumbled to get his goggles on over his eyes. He checked his right hip for his pistol, which was there, and his left hip for his rapier; for a moment his heart jerked as his fingers grasped at nothing. Then he remembered it was gone. Left behind on that accursed isle. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to let it go, despite the fact that the weapon had been with him since he was a teen, crafted specially for him. The griffin under him shifted, impatient, bringing him back to the present.

He gave her a pat on her smooth feathered neck that was as long as he was tall. “Let’s get out of here, yeah? See what we can see from above.”

She extended her great white wings, creating a personal blizzard around them, and the first slow flap of feathers pushed snowflakes out around them. She flapped her wings a few times, warming them up, before starting forwards.

* * *

The lecture hall was warm and smelt of smoking candlewicks. The long desks made great shining semicircles, the dark wood polished to near mirror-quality. Fran was sat near the front, her hands folded on her book as she listened to the professor speaking, discussing the timeline of the Roost Rising. This was a subject Fran didn't mind at all - the excitement, the action, the great figures, the battles, all on such a relatively small island. Perhaps that was why it started so suddenly, and ended so swiftly. It was only the ending that she disliked in its entirety, although she couldn't say so. In history, the violence of the last days was glorified as a difficult but honorable decision by the Council. Those people had to die because they were upsetting the peace, they said. It was necessary to quell the uprising.

The professor wandered back and forth in front of the chalkboard as she spoke. Her great elaborate cloak brushed the ground. It was an impressive item of clothing - as all the professor's cloaks were - a marking of intelligence and diligence to studies. The under-layer was a cream satin, over which was intricate black lacing in a paisley pattern, that reached all the way to the shoulders, where the shiny black velvet began, weighted and warm. The collar was high, brushing the professor's narrow chin, and scalloped at the edges - the inside cream satin, the outside smooth dark velvet. Fran stared wistfully at it before forcing herself to zone back into the lesson being taught.

"And who can name the leader of the rebels during this time?" asked the professor, coming to a halt beside the board, chalk in hand.

Fran raised her hand; she had seen the propaganda pictures of him, painted in blues and whites, standing tall with his rapier drawn, facing the oncoming battle. Although he was dead, she admired him and looked up to him, if only for the tales of his heroics. But again, this couldn't be said, not by her or by anyone. "The Silverbird."

The professor's face twitched at the name. "...You're correct, Francesca, but we call him by his real name, and not a title made to glorify a criminal." She turned to the board and scratched out the name _._ "This man caused endless pain to his people for a selfish reason. Can anyone tell me what that reason was?"

Another hand was raised. "He didn't want laws of silence on the Roost."

"Exactly. He wanted the free flow of dangerous information, despite the consequences of the Discovery. Of course, the Roost _personally_ benefited from the Discovery, creating their pistols and muskets, but the laws were needed to prevent another Discovery. He managed to gather quite a following..."

The lesson went on like so, for fifty minutes. Francesca didn't like how the professor spoke of the Roost and what occurred. Everyone in the room had heard the tales; the Council sent in forces from the mainland to help quash the rebellion, and they had done so, forcefully and bloodily. The deaths were never officially reported. They probably weren't even counted in the first place. The Silverbird was arrested and brought before a court, endured a farce of a trial that was naught but a lengthy public humiliation, and was administered his punishment - a thousand lashes, with fifty to be doled every week until completion, and an eventual execution by firing squad. After that, the Roost accepted the new laws. Fran wondered whether there had been any survivors left who could have opposed them. From the sound of the bloody crackdown, it seemed unlikely.

Afterwards, in the hall as they waited for their next class, Fran lingered close to the students who had come from the Roost. They were easy to spot even without their flight coats - people from the Roost were tall and whip-thin, and carried themselves with a formality and neatness that gave away their militaristic upbringing. They also tended to keep to themselves, and the students stuck together in a small but revered clique. Fran pretended to be occupied with an ink stain under the tip of one of her nails as she listened to the murmurs from the group beside her.

"My dad says he wasn't even executed. Says they would've shown his body if he'd been killed like they said."

"I heard that he's still in prison," said another girl, absent-mindedly braiding a lock of her blonde hair. "That they've extended his punishment."

"I heard he escaped. Seemed like the sort of thing he'd do, from the stories."

"Sometimes I wonder if it's all a lie," whispered one of the boys. "If he ever even existed. My mom says that he was created by the lead rebels as a sort of martyr-figure, and-"

"Oh, come off it. He was definitely real. We've all seen the paintings and stuff."

There was a sudden quiet before one of the boys piped up with: "He was kind of handsome, wasn't he?"

This elicited stifled giggles from the group, and a few playful shoves.

"Well I didn't want to _say_ it, but-"

"But we were all thinking it!"

Fran rolled her eyes. She had been hoping for something a bit more substantial than that. But she couldn't risk getting caught up in gossip, not so close to inauguration. Soon enough, she'd be approached by a School, if her work was up to scratch. She hoped to be inaugurated into the School of Flora and Fauna. It seemed so wild, so unique. She didn't even know what they actually taught in there, but gods, she wanted to know.

However, she had noticed Professor McClintock showing some interest in her. He was the short, portly Head Professor from the School of Storms and Skies, with a ruddy face and impressive mustachio. She only knew the Head Professo from Flora and Fauna, so she clung onto the hope that maybe he was watching her too, waiting to make an offer, and she just didn't know.

After the day of classes she went straight back to her apartment, instead of going to the library as usual. The book was still on her desk; she was halfway through transcribing it. Two Librarians guarded the doors to her apartment building. She showed them her identification. This time, they decided to check her bag. She felt the relief go through her at the fact they hadn't tried to check when she had the book in it. Not that the book was forbidden. But she wasn't going to kid herself; it was clearly a book that the Council _would_ forbid, if they knew about it.

She dumped her satchel in the hallway, unbuttoning her cloak from around her throat and hanging it on the back of the door. It was a modest apartment, as the student apartments were; a small bedroom, a small kitchen, a small sitting room. They weren't allowed to share apartments. She didn't have to guess why; a chance to speak in secret with people was frowned upon entirely.

She turned on the oil lamps in the kitchen before heating a kettle of water for some tea. From her window she could see Greatlight. People were in there right now, she thought with a shudder. It was like having seen an animal swallow another whole, and knowing that the smaller creature was still alive in the darkness of the other's digestive tract, terrified, helpless. Her mind drifted to the book on her desk. She wondered how heinous of a crime someone had to commit to be sent to Greatlight.

She took a quick moment to close over the book and hide it in her sock drawer before returning to her tea.

* * *

The land ahead was grey and murky, and rapidly growing larger. Ricky pushed himself to his feet, gaze locked on the upcoming cliff edge. It was getting closer. If he held his line, he’d find his way into the bay it must be sheltering. Yet as he watched, he noted the lack of seabirds, the lack of grass along the top, and the strange smooth shape of it. His eyes drifted down to the frothy water at the bottom, that was splitting against it, being pushed aside. Ricky’s eyes widened, his heart leaped into his throat. It wasn’t a cliff.

When he raised his gaze again he could hardly see the top of the boat. Was it even it a boat? It was monstrous! He’d never seen anything like it in his life. He guided his own little boat further out of its path - a path so wide that if he’d been in the centre of it he’d never have made it out of the way on time - and stared in muted silence. It was terrifyingly humbling, made of steel so dark it was black, so incredibly large it covered the horizon where the sea kissed the sky. He could see spindly arms of metal extending from the hidden deck, swinging ropes and lines, and a thick dark smoke belching from it. It could easily be the size of half the island, he thought, the entire population of his home could live on that ship.

It took a long, long while to pass. Ricky felt horribly vulnerable in his little wooden boat, knees hugged to his chest and a sudden anxiety behind his ribs. What sort of place was the mainland? Living beasts, and man-made beasts too? His mind went back to the rider, and his derision in the belief of the gods. For a second, Ricky understood why he could feel that way, and how he could justify feeling that way. But only for a second.

Ricky watched the ship until it was far on the horizon, leaving its dirty black streak of smoke in the air. What a horrible thing, he thought, harmful even to witness. But the sign of a ship was good - if he stuck to the route it had been taking, he’d reach wherever it had come from.

A few hours passed, in relative ease. Ricky was one who knew how to relax. He sat back and let his fingertips pierce the smooth surface of the cold water below. Once or twice he saw a shape below, a dolphin or two, accompanying him on his way. He ate some salted pork, drank some water, and wished he'd thought to store some wine. Surely they had wine on the mainland. If not, he was turning right back around.

He found himself keeping an eye on the seabirds above, just in case one seemed larger than the rest. He couldn't look at a bird now without thinking of the rider and his beast, with those piercing yellow eyes, the raucous screech that came from its large beak. He wondered if it was cursed. He wouldn't be surprised.

The air grew colder and colder; it stung his face, his neck, the top of his chest that was exposed, and it made the ends of his curls stiffen up. He hugged his coat around him, but it wasn't an item of clothing made for warmth. On the far horizon he occasionally saw other ships, the same hulking monstrosities as the one he'd already seen. He wondered where they were going, what they were doing, and most importantly who was on them. Sometimes he looked over to see them again, only to find them vanished without a trace. He didn't let it worry him; stranger things happened at sea.

Chunks of ice slid past his boat. He reached out to touch the closer ones; they burned his fingertips with the cold. His breath fogged the air. How cold it was getting! He hoped it didn't get much colder; his boat wasn't made to break up ice. He thought about the giant ships and their steel hulls, and knew that ice wouldn't stand a chance against them. But Ricky would withstand whatever was put in his path, including ice; the gods would ensure him safe passage, he knew they would.

The water pushed up under the ice sheets, gently, inconspicuously breaking them apart, so Ricky's boat could pass through unharmed. Ricky was too busy watching the oncoming evening to notice.

Within the next twenty minutes, he saw a light, a distant one. A lighthouse. He smiled, getting to his feet to move to the front of the boat, the sail flapping by his head. Well, that hadn't been too far of a journey after all! He wondered why they didn't go to the mainland more often, if it was so close. He had always been under the impression that it was a great distance away, but here he was, hardly a full day's sail.

There were no docks visible along the bleak grey shore, so he simply let his boat wash up onto the black smooth stones of the beach. They crackled under the small hull, icy webs breaking. He had only just climbed out when he heard pebbles scattering nearby, under hurriedly marching feet.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

Ricky turned to face the owner of the voice; a large broad-shouldered woman swathed in a heavy fur cloak. A dimly-glowing lantern swung from one thick-gloved hand. The other hand held a double-edged ax, the blades larger than Ricky's head. There was an impressive mane of dark hair around her head - brushed out - and more than that, a beard. Ricky squinted. Yes, it was most definitely a beard, with neat plaits keeping it in line. Yet she was most definitely a woman. How strange, he thought, how strangely wonderful.

She seemed a bit put-off by him, this man standing alone on the shore beside his boat, unharmed, without a hint of hypothermia or frostbite. "Who are you? Where did you come from?" She extended the lantern a tad, her eyes widening. "And did you come in _that?"_

Ricky followed her eyes to the little boat, wondering why she seemed so astonished. "Well, yes. I did. And I come from Storm's Eye. Is this the mainland?"

She held the lantern aloft, eyeing him suspiciously. "Come closer."

He came a bit closer, studying her while she studied him. Her eyes fell to the markings on his skin, her brows drawing together. After a few minutes of this, she seemed satisfied that he wasn't harmful. The dagger on his belt would hardly pierce her leathers, and her ax could easily cleave him in half if he even tried.

She ordered him to stay put while she searched the boat. Ricky did so, wanting to make a good first impression with these people. She rummaged through the few belongings he'd brought, seemingly a little disappointed, until she found something worth making a fuss over.

"Where did you get this?"

Ricky glanced at the rapier in her hand, mentally cursing it. "I... found it."

"You found it?" She turned it over; the golden handle glinted. "This is Roost-forged, no doubt. And you're not a rider, you're much too short."

Ricky decided to take that on the chin. "A rider visited my home and left it behind."

Her face grew serious. "Was it the Silverbird? There were rumours that he was seen flying over the bay." She looked back down at the rapier. "Is this his?"

Ricky pulled his coat closed, unsure of how to proceed. She didn't seem too fond of whoever this Silverbird was. "I don't know. He didn't stay long enough to ask. I don't even know if he was the... Silverbird." The title hesitated to slip off his tongue.

She observed him for a moment in silence. "Right. Well, you'd best come with me."

It wasn't an offer. Ricky spared a glance back at his boat. "What about-"

"I'll send people down to fetch it, don't worry." One large hand was clamped on his shoulder, guiding him up the beach. "Where did you say you were from again?"

"Storm's Eye."

"Never heard of it."

"It's not too far."

She didn't seem interested. He let himself be guided up along a worn-out path. There was snow on the ground, the sort that had gone grey with dirt and had been mashed up by passing boots. He could hear the rushing of a river somewhere to his left, but it was hidden by a thick cold mist that was setting in.

Within minutes a great gate loomed over them, black wrought iron, beautiful rendered, curling and twisting into magnificent patterns. There was a black stone wall either side that stretched off into the mist. A vague shape appeared on top of one of these walls. The woman holding Ricky called up to it. After a short conversation in a strange language, there was a grating sound, and the gates began to open. Ricky swallowed as he was brought through them.

He got the immediate sensation that there were giant buildings all around, yet he couldn't accurately make them out through the mist. Gods, it was thick. He could barely see his hand in front of his face. Yet the woman - who he now presumed was some sort of guard - guided him through the cobbled streets without hesitation. She took a sharp left, and they were in a garden, dark green grass struggling to breathe under thin films of icy snow. It crunched under their feet as they crossed the enclosed space. A single window was visible, a warm golden light within. Ricky's spirits soared at the sight of it.

The guard knocked on the wooden door set into the brick wall. A section of the door open, a small grating near the top; Ricky wasn't tall enough to see who was on the other side. There was another conversation in a language Ricky didn't know - the accent sounded rough and grizzly - and there was a sliding of bolts before the door opened. A giant man stood inside, although compared to the guard he appeared to be a normal-sized man. Ricky felt incredibly weak all of a sudden. He spoke to the guard for another few seconds before grunting and ambling off into the room; from the rich smell of meat within, it was some sort of kitchen. The man returned - was it a man, if the woman had beards too? - and handed two gold coins over to the guard. Without so much as a glance at Ricky, she left.

"Well, lad." The man's voice was rumbly. "Come inside. Get you introduced."

Introduced? Excellent. Ricky wasn't sure to who as of yet, but he was sure it was a step in the right direction.

The kitchen was large, with high ceilings, and a whole pig was turning on a spit. A young girl - still bigger than Ricky - was brushing some herbs and oil onto the crackling skin. He could tell she was a girl, as she had no facial hair, yet when she looked at Ricky he could just about see there was stubble on her cheeks, the same reddy colour as the hair on her head. Her eyes turned sad at the sight of him being brought past. He didn't like that.

The kitchen was downstairs from a magnificent hallway. There was an awe-inspiring staircase that spiraled all the way up to a domed ceiling; the ceiling itself stretched on forever, and the parts that weren't glass were painted elaborately, with strange creatures and people, all engaged in some battle or other. Ricky's head stayed turned up as he was guided across the marble-floored space. The light from above was cold through the layer of snow on the roof.

"My GOODNESS!"

The delighted shriek made him jump. He looked over his shoulder and up, and a woman stood on the spiral staircase. Her blonde hair was shiny and plaited elaborately into her beard. She gave another shriek before barreling the rest of the way down the carpeted stairs. Her dress was a green velvet and embroidered most beautifully down the centre, and it was covered by thick fur around the neck and shoulders, and also at the cuffs and hem. She hurried right over to Ricky, her boots loud against the floor that seemed suddenly quite delicate under the size of her.

"Where did you find her?" she asked the man from the kitchen. He shrugged. "Oh, she's wonderful! I'll have to show father!"

Ricky didn't get a chance to even think of what to say. He was dragged towards the door that the kitchen man had been bringing him towards. The woman holding him flung it open and almost carried Ricky in by the scruff of his coat.

"Father! Look at what I found!"

The room was wonderfully cozy. A fire roared in the hearth that was as tall as Ricky was; he could've stepped right into the fire without having to even duck. He eyed it warily. The walls were a warm red, and thick curtains were pulled across windows, blocking out any possibilities of a draft. There were gilded candlesticks and oil paintings in dark wood frames; at the angle he was at, he couldn't quite see what the paintings were of. Plush armchairs were located around the fire, and in it sat bearded individuals in jewel-coloured velvets and furs so thick and plentiful that they could have possibly suffocated in them if they fell asleep for too long. No one paid much heed to Ricky's arrival - they were fixated on a map that was open on a round table between them - apart from a tired-looking man with greying hair and a face cracked with wrinkles.

"What is it, Milda?"

The woman shook Ricky like a doll. "Look what I found! And oh _look_ , father-" She tugged his coat off him; Ricky's eyes widened in complete bafflement. "-she’s patterned!”

Ricky moved away as the woman tugged at his shirt to show more of his markings - he didn’t mind being touched, but only if they asked, or if he gave himself. But this poking and prodding? It made him feel small and weak, but he was too proud to try and bat the hands away. He hadn’t thought for a second that his markings would be seen as something special on the mainland, but they seemed to be the first thing people noticed about him. He finally spoke up, above the crackle of the fire and the murmurings of the people around it.

“I’m not a woman.”

The old man raised his brows, but he was still disinterested. “Oh. Oh, well, it can be a bit difficult to tell with you southerners. And you have such a finely-boned face, I’d have thought you a proper lady if it weren’t for your clothing.”

Ricky didn’t know how to respond to this. He wanted his coat back.

“Oh, can we keep him here?” asked the woman again, brushing a hand roughly through an alarmed Ricky’s hair. “I’ll look after him, I promise.”

Ricky blinked. “What? I don’t-”

“Look at him, Milda. He’s a strong lad.” The man seemed to sink further into his furs, grumbling. “He might be of help when those damned craghands get here.”

Her eyes widened. "Oh, no. Oh, no no no. Look at him. He's far too small-" Ricky set his jaw. "-he'll get crushed!"

"I'm busy, Milda. Just- Just take him away. Do whatever you want." The old man was sat forward in his seat again, studying the map. "Leave me in peace for tonight."

What in the world sort of place was this? Ricky was bundled out by the woman, and handed over to another woman, this one dressed much more plainly, in black with no furs. She curtsied once the woman had left her orders. Ricky was brought up and up the stairs, the cold light from the dome growing colder and more harsh as he got closer.

He was brought to a room, a grand room, with a four-poster bed and a rug so thick it felt like walking on whipped cream.

"Your bath is being run," said the woman in black, dropping his coat onto the bed before returning to the door. "It's over there. You'll be looked after."

Ricky swallowed. "Thank you." She was already gone.

He wanted to follow, to ask questions, but really, a bath sounded wonderful. It would get the deep chill out of his bones. He followed the sound of running water, through a small door across the way, and into a steam-filled room with slick tiles and the smell of lavender. The serving girl who had been tending to the pig in the kitchen was at the bath. She nodded at him as he came in, but other than that, didn't speak. Ricky was entirely unsure of what to do with himself. He wanted to talk to the serving girl, but she was preoccupied, adding this and that to the bathwater, things that made it smell rich and sweet. He began to strip off, pulling his shirt over his head and placing it aside before starting at the lacings of his trousers.

"What are you doing?!"

He turned back at the squeaked voice. The serving's girls face was red and shiny, both from the heat of the water and apparent embarrassment. He hesitated. "Sorry?"

"Why are you taking your clothes off?"

"...For the bath."

She seemed uncomfortable, waiting for him to laugh or apologize. "Most people wait until the servant has left before doing that."

"Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry." He thought back to the rider and his strange obsession with staying entirely covered. "I didn't mean to offend."

"I'm not offended. It's just a bit... odd." She popped the lid of the bottle of lavender oil back on; glass clinked against glass. "Where are you from again? Somewhere south, no doubt. The Temples?"

He shook his head, giving his arms a rub; somehow, that vicious cold from outside still lingered inside. "No. I'm from Storm's Eye. To the east."

"The east? East of here? There's nothing east of here."

"There is. My home."

She pulled a face, brows raised, before turning away. "If you say so."

She continued about her work, fetching a warm thick towel and small cloth bag filled with something that rattled lightly. She left the room and came back with a fur robe. Ricky eyed it warily, as if it might come to life and bare some teeth amid the fur.

"Leave your old clothes here when you're done," said the serving girl. "I'm to take them."

"My 'old' clothes?"

"Yes. The lady wants you dressed appropriately."

"What? I can dress myself." The indignance burned through him. "I'll be keeping my clothes."

"I'm to take them, I'm afraid. I'm under the lady's orders, not yours."

"I'm- I'm not used to having a servant. How do I go about telling the, um, lady, that I want to keep my things as they are?"

"You don't. You do what the rest of us do; what she says."

Ricky jerked his chin up at this. "I don't think so. I do what I want."

She smiled; it had a pitying edge to it. "Of course." Her eyes drifted to his markings again. "You're really from the east?"

"Yes. An island. Storm's Eye." He leaned over the bath to dip a hand in it; it scalded. He'd leave it for a little longer. "I arrived tonight."

She laughed, a bitterly wry sound. "Well, you sure chose your timing well."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"The craghands are on the move. First time ever. Left us all in the lurch - fuel will start running low soon enough."

Ricky hesitated. He didn't want to appear stupid, but he had to ask: "What are craghands?"

"Oh." She looked a bit ashamed at having to explain its meaning. "It's... a bit of rude term for workers from the Great Mines. My own parents were from there. I'm only here because they struck a deal with the lady; if they gave her extra fuel, she'd give me a life away from the Mines. A win-win for her; extra fuel and an extra servant." She looked at her feet, scuffed a boot off the rug. "But I have to be thankful. Not everyone gets so lucky." After a beat, she continued on. "Apparently the whole population is on its way. That's- That's a lot. I heard the lord say a couple of hundred thousand! Led by the Mayor."

"...I don't know who that is."

"Really? Don't you know anything about here?"

Ricky shook his head, thankful for the steam from the bath; it excused his reddening face. He scrambled for any scrap of knowledge he'd picked up since arriving. "I- I know the Silverbird."

Her face fell, but an excited glint appeared in her eye. "You do? Is he coming?"

"...I don't know."

"Rumour is he was seen flying west over the city. Oh, I hope he's going to help the workers. They need it."

"Help them what?"

"Get what they want, I suppose." She lifted her chin. "Take what they want from all those lords and ladies. Leeches. They don't deserve what they've got."

Ricky treaded carefully on this new terrain. "Are you not one of them?"

"No. None of the staff are." She leaned forwards, her voice a mischievous whisper. "They don't have half as many allies as they might think."

With that, she dipped a quick curtsy and made her leave. Ricky heard the door lock. He raised his brows, crossing the room - surely he had misheard - to jiggle the lock, and found that he most certainly had not misheard. The door was locked. He knocked on it, rapidly, in time to his heartbeat.

He called out: "Hello?"

The lock rattled, and the door cracked open, and the serving girl reappeared. "Yes?"

Ricky was staring in baffled astonishment. "You locked the door?"

"Oh, yes. Orders. The lady doesn't want you going walkabout." She hesitated, eyes lowering. "I'm sorry. But she... She likes to own people. People who she thinks are different. I don't know. She was raised to get whatever she wants and in all honesty I don't think it's done her mind one bit of good. She doesn't act normal, or treat people normal. It's as if she lives in a bubble and thinks no one else truly exists."

Ricky swallowed; this had not gone as he had assumed it would. "Can I... Am I a guest or something more permanent?"

"I'm not sure. For now, permanent, since the lord is occupied with the coming craghands." She shrugged. "Everything might change when they get here. Or nothing might change. I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

Rick smiled stiffly, looking back into the warm, lush room with all its furs and comfort. "I suppose it's not the worst place to become stuck. For a while, anyway."

Her face remained serious. "There's far, far worse places out there, you know. Don't doubt that for a second. We're lucky we're so far from Arcania, in a way. The Council can't reach us so easily up here."

The Council? Ricky didn't ask; he had so many questions, but he had to remain acting as if he knew what he was doing. Even though he now realized he clearly hadn't a clue. He let her go this time, and he didn't try to tell her to leave the door unlocked. He was tired, too tired to cause a fuss, and the bath did look awfully tempting. He finished getting undressed and slid into the hot water. The bath was so deep the water almost touched his nose, and he scrambled to remain upright. It wasn't made for people of his size. Was everyone on the mainland so large? He thought back to the rider, but that man had been tall, not wide. Gods, he hated feeling small.

But one step at a time, he told himself, tonight he would rest, and tomorrow he would begin to try and make meaning out of why he was sent here. He washed himself, washed his hair, taking a brush from the ones laid out on a small table beside the bath and passing it through his wet curls. He thought back to the chieftess waving at him from the cliff edge, and was suddenly grateful that she had seen him go; it meant that there was more a chance of his people coming after him, if he didn't return.

He sat in the bath and felt very, very alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the arriving in snows end might seem rushed and stuff but i wanna get onto the Juicy Scenes and this is, after all, a fun fic for fun times


	5. Captive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Hidden in my empty room, all alone, I burn incense, and dream in the smoke, all alone.”_ \- Chu Shu-chen

The tents were flapping wildly, loud and sharp and snapping. The Mayor hurried across the snowy ground, wading a wide path in it. Manda and a few others followed in his wake. A blizzard was on its way, the second of the season, yet the mood among the people was livelier than ever. The sound of hammering pegs into the frozen solid ground was loud and light. It was strange, he thought, since the weather and the scenery was the exact same as at home. It was the sense of purpose, he supposed, the prospect of their lives creating some sort of change in the world. 

The wagons were circling the encampment, their contents tied down and covered. The mammoths huddled together, a vague woolly mountain just outside the line of wagons. The Mayor couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for them, but there was no way to make replacement stables, and they were built to survive the cold anyway. When the blizzard passed he would check on them, and he would find them under a mound of snow, fast asleep and trunks resting over each other. He had a feeling he wouldn’t sleep quite as soundly.

Once inside the tent, the flap of the entrance was buttoned closed, as tightly as possible. Someone had already stoked a fire in the small stove. They merged around it, doing as the mammoths do, huddling close. Once they were warm enough to dare removing their cloaks, they did, the snow still stuck to some, mid-melt.

“It’s still a long way to the city,” said someone amid the rustling of cloaks. “But at least we’re on the way.”

“We’ll make it there,” said Manda, brushing her damp red hair back off her face, combing out her clumped beard with her fingers. “What matters is what we’ll face once we arrive.”

“They’ll let us in. They have no reason to turn us away.”

“They have every reason. Their lifestyle is only as precious as it is when they don’t have to see the roots of it.” Manda laughed dryly. “Do you think they have time for guilt while they’re soaking in their heated baths?”

The Mayor fetched a bottle of akevitt from the supplies, and a few bone-hewn cups with it. He listened to the discussion of the people behind him as he poured a small amount of drink into each cup. He always listened. Sometimes he spoke. Only sometimes.

“When they see all of us at their gates, they’ll know we’re serious,” said one of the women.

“Do you think that will mean a thing to them?” Manda carried over chairs to the stove, dumping them down. The ground below was still damp from having been scraped clean of snow. “They’ll see us as a nuisance to get rid of. Nothing more.”

The Mayor remained silent, handing out cups. He knew Manda was right, yet he also knew she was spreading the wrong attitude. The miners had to arrive at the gate as a united, calm front. Not a raving mess of rioters. They were lucky to be so far north, and therefore so far from the Council. Drawing attention to themselves could change this one advantage that they had. He said as much.

"We'll be lucky if the glasshands haven't already sent word to the Council," said Manda, settling into a chair. The fire warmed her feet through her boots and layers of socks, thawing them out. "We might turn up and have a whole army waiting to flatten us."

"Or they might be open to negotiation." The Mayor's joints creaked as he sat down; he hoped no one heard. Gods, he was getting old so quickly. The last fifteen years in the Mines hadn't done him the least bit of good. "You know that the city people like the lack of Council presence just as much as we do. It's a balance we'll just have to try and strike right."

"You have too much faith in them," said Manda reprimandingly, "They disowned you and you hope they'll show mercy."

"Yes, I hope they'll show mercy. But don't worry, I'm not fooling myself either." He threw back his akevitt; it burned in his belly and warmed him from within. "We'll hope for the best and prepare for the worst."

* * *

Ricky hadn't been so idle in a long time. Even on the boat he had entertained himself with excitement for the future and a new beginning of... something. Whatever it was, he was sure he was going to be at the heart of it. He was always at the heart of everything. On Storm's Eye he was highly regarded, he knew he was, if a little alienated as a result. But he assured himself that this alienation had been a trial from the gods, a way to prepare him for the time he would spend on the mainland. They knew the path his life would take, and would guide him appropriately. He was sure of it.

Yet perhaps they were being a bit slower than usual. Or perhaps he wasn't reading their signs as clearly as he usually did.

A day and a night and another day and another night had passed, and he was still in the room given to him by this ever-enigmatic 'lady'. The serving girl - Hettie, she called herself - came and went, but she rarely had news, apart from the fact that the craghands were drawing closer and closer every hour. Whoever those people were, they sure knew how to march.

She brought food and drink and kept his room clean. He supposed it wasn't _really_ a room. It was large, and with two other rooms branching from the bedroom - a sitting area, with books and armchairs and a fire that Hettie kept lit. The other room was the bathroom. Hettie would run him a hot bath if he asked. So yes, he wasn't exactly suffering, but he was growing increasingly cramped. He was used to having a whole island as his to roam, and the open expanse of the sea on top of that. Here, it didn't quite match up.

He had also developed quite a dislike for the clothes that had been given to him. They had given him a small cloth bag of jewelry, which he had tossed aside, but for one ring - a deep black stone, smoothed and set in carved silver. He liked how it glittered when held at an angle to the flames. They had also given him a fur-trimmed coat and a thick jumper and trousers. He'd been given his own clothes back too, but he left them hanging near the fire (they had been washed in something that made them smell sickly-sweet, and he was attempting to smoke the cloying scent away).

They had also returned the rapier, in all its golden glory. He had attempted to wield it, but found it deceptively temperamental, switching from too light to too heavy at a moment's notice, slipping through the air as if through silk, and within five minutes he had given himself too many nicks and cuts on his hands to bother trying to continue. Yet his gaze wandered back to it, over and over, and he saw the rider with his cold blue eyes, and that feathered beast and its demonic screeching.

That had been earlier in the day, and now it was evening, and Ricky was sprawled on the couch with a pile of books on the floor below his hanging hand. He had hoped for some history of the mainland, some sort of information about where he was, but the shelves held nothing but fairytales in books beautiful bound but full of nonsense. He had even read one where the gods were conveyed as some sort of comical villain! He had scoffed and tossed the book into the flames, sitting back to watch it burn. Something sang inside him at the sight.

Now, he was bored again. Mind-numbingly bored. There was no way to tell the time, no clock on the wall or view of the sea behind that endless, thick layer of cloud. In the distance the clouds were even thicker, heavy with snow. He had never seen so much snow fall in such a short amount of time. The streets and buildings outside were permanently covered in the stuff, and yet there were always shapes moving about, people hurriedly going about their evenings. Or was it morning? Or afternoon? It was always so oppressively dull here, and he couldn't even look to the braziers in the street or the fires in people's windows for an indication of the time; they were always, always lit.

Ricky wandered to the window, folding his arms on the sill - he had to push up on his toes to achieve this - and observed the city. It had to be a city. The buildings were tall and many, though he could tell from the angle that the building he was in was quite a bit higher than the rest of the city. There was a large ink-dark lake bordering the city, walled in, a large dam. A wide river appeared and disappeared and reappeared across the city. If he squinted, the sea of buildings that led to it looked like black waves tipped with white froth, or a craggy mountain range covered in snow, or soft black pastries dusted with sweet sugar. Hettie brought him such pastries, in the mornings. Perhaps they were an apology of sorts from the kitchen staff for handing him over to the lady. His eyes narrowed. Or perhaps they were fattening him up. To eat him. Like the giants in the fairytales.

"Don't call us giants!" Hettie had snapped. "It's incredibly insensitive! Goodness."

He had to admit, he still had quite a lot to learn. He found that people were excessive in what you could and could not call them. Don't call glasshands glasshands, and don't call craghands craghands - at least not to their faces.

"There's history behind the words," explained Hettie as she cleared away his dishes. "Bad connotations."

He had no reason to doubt her then, and had no reason to still. She was sixteen, she told him. He tried not to show his shock at her size; she was about half a head taller than him, and broad in the shoulders. Later that night he had stood in front of the bathroom mirror and observed himself. He had never considered himself short, but now he realized that he had yet to meet a mainlander who wasn't taller than him. He had drifted in the bath for a while then, reconsidering the vast majority of his life.

He was moping on his bed when Hettie knocked at the door and stepped in with a tray of tea, placing it down on the chest of drawers. His eyes lit up at the sight of her.

"Hettie, hold on."

She paused at the door. "Yes? What can I do for you?"

"I'm fed up here. I want to leave this room. I feel like a dog."

She shrugged. "I'm sorry, but the lord and lady are busy. Apparently the craghands are hardly half a day away. The lord has hardly left the sitting room."

His heart sank. "So I've been forgotten up here."

"...It seems so."

Ricky was not used to being forgotten. He felt a sudden fury in him, his fists clenching by his sides, his chin raised. "Well then I want to leave. I'm no one's prisoner. I don't belong to anyone. Let me out."

She shifted from side to side. "I can't. I'm under orders."

"Orders to what?"

"To make sure I alert a guard if I see you leave your room."

He sifted through his sentence in his mind, hoping to find a crumb of hope. "And what if you don't see me?"

She closed her eyes. Her lashes were light as sunshine. "Ricky..."

"But then it's not your fault, right?" He stepped forwards, eager. "Just leave the door unlocked. They won't even notice me gone. They've forgotten about me! You said so yourself!"

"The lady will remember soon..."

"I'll be far away, sooner than she'll remember."

Hettie mulled it over, fiddling with the key in her apron pocket. Then she sighed heavily, giving him a long look before stepping back outside. Her hand rested on the door. "Where would you even go? How would you get out of the city?"

He just smiled. "I'll find a way. The gods will show me."

Again, she gave him that odd look. It was a look she always gave him whenever he mentioned the gods, as if he wasn't right in the head, as if he was some strange foreign creature. He gritted his teeth. In his eyes, _she_ was the strange foreign creature. He wished to bridge the gap between them, but still wasn't sure where the gap was, or what exactly it separated. He couldn't build a bridge with no beginning and no end. He felt that slight flutter of failure in his chest again, like when he watched that giant ship drift past out on the sea. If he couldn't even connect with a serving girl, how could he connect with those who believed themselves above him?

"If you stay here, and the craghands come, they'll free you," said Hettie quietly. "Once they get inside the city."

"Is that why they're here?" asked Ricky. "As liberators?"

"That's what we hope."

"And what if they fail." Ricky searched her eyes. "What happens to me then? Is this it?"

She swallowed. "I think so. But don't think like that."

"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one stuck in here."

"I've been stuck inside this damned house my entire life," she said with sudden fury. "You've been here for a few days. I've been here for years. _Years_."

"Then come with me," said Ricky, relieved that he finally stirred something in her. "I-"

"They don't treat runaways with mercy here." She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I can't risk it. My parents gave away their lives for me to be spared the Mines. If I'm sent back I'll never forgive myself."

Ricky made a last-ditch attempt, taking a quick step forwards to stop her from closing the door. "Can I have a bucket of saltwater?"

Her brows drew together. "Saltwater?"

He nodded. He didn't know how to explain himself without mentioning the gods, and he knew she wouldn't take that request seriously, so he hoped that she wouldn't press him for an explanation. Thankfully, she didn't.

"Okay. I'll fetch that for you."

When she returned with the bucket he smiled and thanked her. The second she left he scrambled out of his uncomfortable fur clothes and back into his own clothes. They were warmed by the fire, but still had a lingering sweet scent. He supposed it would have to do.

He kept the ring on the ring finger of his right hand. He fetched the rapier and tucked it into his belt. When he knelt down in front of the bucket, he froze. There was a face staring back. It wasn't his, but he had seen it before. It was the old man from his vision, who had held a heart in one hand and a skull in the other. His skin was black as midnight and his hair was grey atop his head, forming a look not too unlike a halo. His dark eyes were serene, knowing. Ricky plunged a hand into the water. When he withdrew it, it was just himself looking back, wide eyed and confused.

He washed as much of himself as he could in the water. It was ice cold, straight from the river through the centre of the city. He needed to feel it against his skin, a blessing before he attempted his escape. _I didn't come all this way to die._ He splashed the water on his face and repeated this to himself, over and over.

* * *

The snow was falling thick and soft over the city. Tinsley liked snow. It muffled the sounds of landing and taking off. The buildings passed by below, but other than that seemed peaceful. It appeared that the miners hadn't come here. Or perhaps that just hadn't come here yet. It was a wide expanse out there beyond the city walls. He must have missed them.

He guided Sky silently through the air, letting her choose the most hidden place to land. The snow had picked up, whirling through the night air, giving her good coverage. Tinsley stayed low on her back.

She chose a flat roof to land on, her feet sinking into the snow that had accumulated on it. She folded in her wings quickly but smoothly. From here, Tinsley observed the city.

There were more guards than was necessary. He could see them marching in groups past the braziers on the streets, their shadows flickering and vanishing, again and again. There were very little citizens out. Something big was on its way. He saw a dog or two, and a cat sitting in a window, through the glass of which he saw a roaring fire. He blew into his gloved hands, rubbing them together. Smoke billowed from every chimney, a thick miasma stretching into the distance towards the dam.

A movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head towards the wealthier end of the city, where the houses turned to mansions and the people turned to monsters. He narrowed his eyes. There was someone climbing along a ledge, on all fours, black against the white of the snow. Tinsley watched them for a moment. Probably some poor servant having reached the end of their patience. Yet this person moved with too much determination, there was still life in them. Tinsley shook his head, pityingly. Whoever it was, they wouldn't reach the city walls in one piece. He knew that some attempted to swim the river and let it sweep them out of the city, but the glasshands had had black iron gratings installed to stop anymore from escaping. He watched the figure scrambling around, finding their way down the building one ledge at a time.

After a few minutes he lost interest. Even more than that, a blizzard was setting in, and he had no intention of getting stranded in this stinkhole. He gave Sky's reins a gentle flick, and with a soft billowing of snow, they were gone.

* * *

Ricky skidded down the snowy bank, his breath burning in his lungs. He could hear arrows whistling through the air, thumping into the snow and ice around him. The guards had spotted him almost instantly, but they were larger than him, less nimble, and he had outrun them within minutes, letting the sound of the river guide him through the cobbled streets. Then the archers had appeared, and he wasn't feeling so lucky. He had a newfound love for blizzards and their habit of blinding everyone and everything.

The sound of rushing water reached his ears, crisper and clearer than before, and the salty smell reached his nose. All of it filled him with hope. When he reached the flat expanse at the bank he ran full-tilt, spraying snow with his boots, snowflakes melting on his face, in his hair, on his coat. The black water appeared before him, tearing its way towards freedom. He didn’t slow, and when he was close enough he threw himself into the water, a smooth dive that was as natural to him as blinking and breathing.

The water roared in his head and spread salt on his tongue. He opened his eyes, and could see nothing but stinging blackness. For a split second, he was home. He was certain, so certain, that if he kicked to the surface he’d find the beach laid out in front of him, and would see the marshy slopes of the island, and would perhaps spy candles glimmering in windows. The thought broke his heart.

For this reason he didn’t try to kick to the surface, but he wouldn’t have been able to anyway. The water carried him along, and it was violent, spinning him in its currents. He knew better than to fight back against its throes. He trusted the water. It was the only thing in the world he trusted.

He heard a horrible metallic grating noise, and for a moment the world shook, rumbled, fell down around him. Heavy objects crashed into the water, throwing bubbles about like confetti, but he didn’t panic. He let out the last of his breath. It rose in pearls to the far surface. He felt the riverbed damp and thick against his arm, passing quickly below him. He wasn’t sent here to die, he couldn’t have been. The voice in his head ebbed and flowed, _trust me, trust me._ The water stroked his hair fondly with liquid fingers. Ricky closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the end of this was kinda rushed but I think both y'all and me have one thing in common: I want Ricky and Tinsley to MEET so that's next chapter and I'm impatient


	6. Chosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Do the gods light this fire in our hearts or does each man's mad desire become his god?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skaadshotn on tumblr did MORE GREAT ART im in luv
> 
> https://icantwritegood.tumblr.com/post/611567500001411072/skaadshotn-having-different-sort-of-allies
> 
> u should see it it's v v accurate regarding clothing and stuff especially !! and the colours..... chef's kiss

He was somewhere cold and warm, wet and dry, sharp and soft. The sound of a running river was in his head. He couldn't feel any of his limbs. He couldn't see a thing. He was quite certain that this was because his eyes were closed, but he had no desire to open them. He was happy to stay in this paradoxical place. He stood in the syrupy darkness. He wasn't alone. That man was there again, the man from his dream, the man he saw in the bucket of water's reflection.

He was tall and wore the strangest clothing; a long black cloak poured from his shoulders, and a shiny ribcage of precious metal was visible underneath, gleaming gold. On his hands were peculiar gloves, a dark satin with shiny metal bones that mapped out the skeleton of the hands that lay beneath the glove's fabric. Yet despite this morbidity, he exuded an undeniably peaceful aura. It swam around him like heat around a furnace. He smiled at Ricky.

"You've fallen asleep."

Ricky blinked. "Oh. Have I?"

"That's not a good thing right now." The man gave him a close look. "It's dangerous to be asleep. You should try to wake up."

"Why is it dangerous?"

Another smile. "You're a curious man. You want to know how the world works, you want to know what's out there, don't you?"

Ricky nodded. "Yes."

"Then you should wake up." The man's gaze drifted, and for a second his dark eyes turned the milkiest of whites, as if they were no longer in the same world as he was. "They're coming now. You'll survive. Try not to sleep. Your eyes can't stay shut forever."

The sound of crunching invaded Ricky's mind, like heavy footsteps across dry seashells. He was back in his own body, he was back in the real world, but he couldn't feel himself. He was numb all over, his eyelids refused to cooperate, fluttering and drifting when he just wanted them to open.

He could hear murmured voices, he could feel hands on him. He was being carried at a brisk pace. The biting wind died down suddenly. He was placed on a hard surface. His coat was pulled off him. His limbs were numb, he couldn't move them. Something was draped over him, tucked under him. He felt his mouth being forced open, and freshwater poured in. He wanted them to leave him alone. He just wanted to sleep. Murmuring voices echoed in his head.

"I don't know how he survived. Who knows how long he was lying there."

"We might be too late," replied a woman's voice. "But we can try. Here, try and get some of this into him."

The substance was warm and sugary. Ricky coughed as it ran down his throat, spluttering some of it out of his mouth. There was a quiet.

"No water in his lungs," said the woman's voice, quietly curious. "How is that possible?" Then her voice sharpened again. "Rub his arms and legs. Get some blood flowing. He might be okay."

After hardly a minute, his body was stinging. It was an intense pain, making his face screw up, making him move around, which the woman seemed to take as a good sign. The stinging rose and fell in strength, and Ricky opened his eyes slowly, relieved to find that wherever he was, it was dark. The roof was moving like fabric underwater. A tent roof, flapping in the wind. A fire was crackling nearby; he could feel the heat from it washing over him.

A face appeared above him, a woman with red hair. "You're awake already! You had us more worried than we should have been. How did you survive in that cold, hm? Your clothes were frozen through!"

Ricky blinked a few times. When he spoke his voice was croaky. "Where am I?"

"I think the more important question is where have you been." She touched his hand where the silver ring still glittered on his finger. "That's from Snow's End. But you're not one of them. You're not one of us either." She lightly touched his chest where a blue marking peeked out under the fabric of his shirt. "You're not one of anyone, I don't think. The Temples, maybe?"

Ricky shook his head. "No." He propped himself on his elbows. His head spun. "Who are you?"

"My name is Manda. And don't worry, I have medical knowledge. I wasn't just poking around, hoping for the best." She laughed heartily before her face fell more serious again. "How are you feeling anyway? How's your energy levels?"

He sat upright, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I'm a bit stiff. But I'm okay."

"Good enough to get up and walk?"

He tried it out. The ground was covered in fabrics, and a small chest of drawers against the wall of the tent was covered with various ointments and pastes. Another table sat by the small stove, with a few cups and a bottle of clear liquid. He walked in a quick circle, hands on his lower back as he stretched himself out. He looked about for his coat. It was near the fire, draped over a chair. When he picked it up it smelt of saltwater and smoke. No more of that disgusting sweetness that clogged his nostrils. He shrugged it on; it was mostly dry.

"You're good enough to walk," said Manda with a nod. "So you're good enough to talk to the Mayor."

"The Mayor?"

"He's the de facto leader around here. Not that he wants to be made aware of that."

Ricky's eyes brightened. Their leader? He was getting a chance to talk to someone with influence and power in this country? It was an abrupt change from his stay in Snow's End, where he spent days locked up without even a visit from a higher-up. He smiled as Manda gave him a furred cloak to wrap around himself, and followed her without protest.

He covered his eyes against the sudden white glare from outside. When he had adjusted to the harshness of the snow, he saw the tents. They stretched on and on into the distance, pillars of smoke rising from them to mingle with the equally grey clouds above. Snow was falling slowly and softly, planting little icy kisses on his skin. Ricky turned his face upwards with a small smile.

People moved around at a slow but steady pace. They were all tall and wide, just like the people in the city had been. They were chopping wood and fetching snow to melt into drinkable water. A few stared as he passed by with Manda. A few turned to many. Bearded faces watched from doorways of tents. Yes, they were similar to the people in the city, but also different; their faces were rougher, their eyes harder, their clothing duller, their hair more tangled and unrefined. Yet he immediately liked them. They were more _real_ than those in Snow's End.

"Why were you in the city?" asked Manda as she walked ahead. She was used to trudging through snow. Ricky struggled a bit, tugging his too-long cloak from under his feet. "Do you know someone there?"

"No. I was on the beach and they took me."

"Took you?"

Ricky nodded. "To a big house. I guess I was a sort of prisoner."

"Most likely."

"I saw boats out on the sea," he continued, kicking snow ahead of him. He spoke for no other reason than he wanted to appear friendly. "Bigger than any I'd ever seen before."

"Mining ships," replied Manda without hesitation. "They'd departed before we decided to stop mining. They're on their way back now."

Ricky nodded, pretending that he knew what was going on. He didn't want to make it obvious that he knew next to nothing about this land before he even reached their leader. He'd be at a disproportionate disadvantage then. Thankfully, Manda didn't push the conversation.

As they moved further into the middle of the camp, the crowd grew thicker, the snow underfoot grew slushier. Ricky couldn't see their leader's tent. It must look the same as all the rest. Ricky liked that. 

"Where do you come from?" asked Manda, giving nods back to people who nodded at her.

"An island to the east of here," replied Ricky, ignoring the odd looks the people were giving him. "Storm's Eye."

"Never heard of it," she replied quite simply.

Ricky didn’t quite know how to continue after this. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, blinking rapidly, but soon realized her attention wasn’t even on him anymore. There was a wave of murmurs spreading through the crowd from all around, excitable, and when Ricky turned all their heads were angled upwards, watching the sky. Ricky followed their gazes, and at first his heart soared at the magnificent sight, and then it rapidly sank to the pit of his stomach. It was an all-too-familiar creature.

It made a slow passage overhead, its wide wings beating soft yet heavy, and so strangely silent. Its long neck was outstretched, its dagger beak pointed ahead. Its rider wasn’t visible from below, but Ricky knew without a doubt that there was a rider on it. He watched in mute shock as it continued over the people, passing over the tents with the dull-sounding _fwump, fwump, fwump_ of feathered wings, low enough that it caused small flurries of snow below. Ricky swallowed hard.

“What sort of beast _is_ that?”

This got an odd look from the people around him. One person piped up: “Have you never seen a griffin before?”

“A griffin?” He tried the word on his tongue; he didn’t like it. “It’s unnatural. Two animals forced into one. A bird and a cat?”

Manda clamped a large hand on his shoulder. “Don’t go saying things like that around riders, you hear? They don’t take nicely to people calling their mounts unnatural.” She began guiding him forwards again, through the crowd. People were talking more excitably than before. The word 'Silverbird' cropped up once or twice. “And anyway, they _are_ natural, but only native to the Roost.”

“What is this Roost that everyone keeps talking about?” asked Ricky, looking up at her. "Is it a city?"

"You don't know it?" Manda seemed a bit puzzled at this. She drew back her cloak, exposing the rapier in her belt. "Then how did you come across this?"

Ricky couldn't make up a lie fast enough. Her eyes turned suspicious.

“It's an island off the west coast. A bit of a military stronghold - it’s only accessible by air.” She went quiet. “The people on it… are an acquired taste, I’ll have to say that.” Then she laughed. “Just don’t tell anyone those words came from me!”

They were heading towards a certain tent now, and Ricky saw the griffin instantly; it towered above the crowd, a hulking white-and-grey-feathered mass, its neck curved in as it preened its chest feathers. Ricky stayed low - quite easy among the giant people around him - and avoided those piercing yellow eyes. He cast an anxious glance towards the elaborate golden hilt still visible in Manda’s belt. This was going to be unpleasant.

Manda opened the flap to the tent, letting Ricky in first, out of the icy air. He attempted to hide within the furs around his neck, but inside the tent was warm, and Manda took away his borrowed cloak to hang it up with the others. He kept his gaze angled aside, but he could hear the talking.

The first voice was a rumble. “I can’t just give up like that, Tinsley. I have to try. You know the feeling just as well as I do.”

“I tried,” came the familiar voice, moody as ever, "and I failed. And you’ll fail too.”

“No. No, we can’t fail.” A pause. "Did you come all this way to tell me that there's no point in doing what I'm doing?"

"I didn't know what you were doing. I thought you were more sensible than me."

"I am. And what I'm doing makes sense. You chose violence as your path. I've chosen peace."

A snort. "Let's see how they understand that language."

"The people in Snow's End are not the Council."

"The rich are the rich. That's all there is to it."

Ricky stayed beside Manda, sparing a glance from under his brows at the owners of the voices. One was a giant man with a mess of greying hair around his head, standing at a table on which was a bottle of clear liquid and multiple small cups. The second was the rider. His back was to them but his clothing was unmistakable, his build, tall and slim, his mannerisms, so blatantly uncaring, hands on his hips and a flippant wave of a hand when suited. Ricky swallowed hard. It seemed that the two knew each other already, which did not spell good fortune for him.

“Mayor, I’ve brought the man they found by the river,” said Manda, loud and clear.

“Oh?” The large man turned his eyes to Ricky; small eyes, but genial. “Is he warmed up? Fed?”

Manda looked at Ricky, brows raised. “Well? You can answer that yourself.”

Ricky didn’t want to speak; so far, the rider was ignorant of his presence, lifting the bottle of clear liquid to his pointy nose and sniffing once just to pull a face of disgust at the stinging smell. Instead of speaking Ricky nodded as a reply, keeping his head turned aside. His heart was thundering in his chest.

The Mayor made a grumbling sound from behind his beard, circling the table to pass by the rider with steps slow and steady. “And where do you come from, lad?”

Ricky opened his mouth, watching as the rider turned towards the fire, removing his gloves to hold his bare hands to the warmth. Ricky wet his lips and said, quietly; “Far.”

“Far? Come along, lad. Tell us where.” He was eyeing Ricky’s markings now, bushy brows drawing together. “Well, I’ve never seen the likes of-”

“Where did you get that?” The rider’s interruption was sharp and stern, his eyes stuck to Manda’s belt. He stood side-on to Ricky, but so close, so close Ricky couldn’t help but stare wide-eyed at the side of his face he could see. He could almost see each individual feathery lash on the man's blue eyes. “That- That’s mine!”

Manda dutifully removed the rapier from her belt, handing it over. She had no need to keep it, anyway. “Is it? Strange. The lad had it.”

The rider went still, the rapier now back in his hands. His eyes raised to stare ahead as the pieces fit together behind them. He turned his fierce gaze to Ricky, his head moving slowly, although the rest of his body didn’t move an inch. Ricky’s hands were clammy; he wanted to wipe them on his shirt, but he couldn’t move under the intensity of that stare. He just raised his chin, swallowing once, fear making his throat dry. He had rarely felt fear in his life, and never as icily as he'd felt it then.

“Impossible.” The rider advanced a few steps closer, bending down slightly to get a closer look, as if to make sure Ricky matched the exact memory he had in his head, detail for detail. “Well, look at you. A bit worse for wear.”

Ricky didn’t move away as the man came closer, eyes inches from Ricky’s, searching deeply, intrusively. Ricky’s own gaze didn’t waver. He watched right back. The rider smiled, although it wasn’t the most friendly.

“Oh, it’s definitely you, isn’t it. There’s no mistaking that pompous little face, even if I only saw it once.”

“Tinsley?” The Mayor had paused in pouring himself a small glass of the clear drink. “What is it?”

Tinsley straightened back up, leaving Ricky with nothing to stare at in panic but the gilded buttons on the chest of his coat. “This little bastard tried to kill me! He’s a damn nutcase.” Ricky cursed loudly as a hand grabbed a hard fistful of the back of his hair, dragging him forwards a step like a bad dog. “He’s no use to have around. I’ll get rid of him for you.”

“Tinsley, let him go.” A cold silence. “I mean it, Tinsley. That isn’t how we handle things here.”

Ricky winced as the fingers tightened in his hair. He longed to fight back, but knew that passive obedience might work out better for the moment. He was suddenly shoved away, hard enough that he stumbled to one knee, a hand flying out to stop himself from falling flat on his front. He glared over his shoulder at the rider, who was glaring right back, blatantly murderous. Ricky was suddenly very grateful for the presence of Manda and the Mayor.

“I’d just be saving you time,” said Tinsley, returning the rapier to his belt at last. “He comes from some island of savages to the east. A fucking miserable pile of rocks and birdshit.” He poured himself a glass of the drink on the table. “And they still believe in _gods.”_ He threw the drink back in one, letting out a harsh sigh after, as if it had hurt him. “What he and his crazy cult friends tried to do was sacrifice me. I’m not joking. Tied me up in this giant pit and were going to flood it and drown me. I know it sounds insane, but it happened.”

“I don’t know if I believe all that.”

“Well why do you think he had my sword?” said Tinsley, spreading his hands. “They’re so isolated from everyone else they took my sword and not my pistol.” Tinsley gave Ricky a sharp kick in the ribs, earning a snarled curse from Ricky and a sharp condemnation from the Mayor. “Do you even know what firepowder is? Is that why you didn’t take my pistol?”

Ricky glared up at him from behind his tousled curls, finding he was quite unwilling to brush them back and reveal his face in all its scarlet humiliation. “I wasn’t the one who took your things.”

“Oh, were you not?” Tinsley crouched down beside him, elbows on his knees and fingers interlaced, a friendly smile on his face. “Well then sorry, pal. I guess you’re cleared of all charges.”

Ricky looked his face over, sidelong. It was a handsomely masculine face, even in its clear dislike of him. “They brought you to me for a reason. I interpreted the reason wrong.”

“Oh shut up.” Tinsley straightened back up, and was very much satisfied that Ricky didn’t follow, instead choosing to remain on his knees in the middle of the floor. Like he should. “You’re fucking pitiful.”

“That’s enough,” said the Mayor with a sudden harshness. “Tinsley, he isn’t your prisoner. He’s mine.”

“Lucky for him.”

Ricky swallowed his anger, glaring at the floor. He couldn't understand what was going on. Why would the gods send him such a hateful person? Why couldn't they have sent him an ally, someone who would guide him along the way in this strange land? It was the most puzzling part of their plan, by far. Ricky knew he would have an awful time interpreting it, especially surrounded by these nonbelievers. He highly doubted they'd lend him anything he needed. For now, he was alone. A rustle of clothing made him glance up. The Mayor raised his bushy brows at him before extending large hand.

"Come on, now. Up you get."

Ricky accepted the help, getting to his feet before brushing himself down, moodily. He rubbed at the back of his head, still sore from Tinsley's harsh grip. "Thank you."

The Mayor finally poured himself a glass of the drink, and poured another, passing the second one to Ricky. "How did you get here, lad?"

Ricky sniffed the drink, his nose wrinkling; it burned already. "A boat."

"A boat? All the way up here?" The Mayor smiled at the hesitance with which Ricky held his drink. "It'll burn, but it'll warm you right up. So get it down you. All in one, that's it."

Ricky spluttered instantly; the liquid scalded his throat like hot sand. He dropped the glass, covering his mouth with both hands, swallowing over and over, rapidly, in an attempt to stop himself from retching it right back up. He could feel it in his belly, churning itself over. Manda and the Mayor laughed good-naturedly, but the rider didn't even smile, watching him with blatant derision on his face. The Mayor clamped a hand on Ricky's shoulder, giving him a shake.

"Warmed up?"

Ricky nodded, clearing his throat. "Yes."

"Great. Now, come along and tell us where you're from."

He led Ricky over to the table, the one against which the rider was leaning, arms folded and legs crossed at the ankles. Ricky ignored him; there was no chance of finding help in such a rude man, but the Mayor seemed a safe enough bet. Ricky stared at the map that was rolled out before him, and went quiet. The size of the island marked out was impossibly large, criss-crossed with tendrils of blue and dots of red, beside which were carefully written names. Ricky looked at the dots which were the largest, working his way from the top of the map to the bottom - the Great Mines and Snow's End were the settlements the farthest north. In the middle were the Temples, the Grand Market, the Darkwoods. To the west sat an island labelled the Roost, around which were the most intricately drawn griffins in full flight. At the bottom of the map, right on the shore, were Arcania and Gravehearth. Some of these cities he had heard mentioned already. Some he hadn't. He searched the east coast and found no island labelled Storm's Eye. It was oddly insulting, which wasn't exactly fair, since he hadn't heard of any of these places on the map until a few days ago.

"Well, where's your home?" asked the Mayor, weighing the tattered edges of the map down with smooth, heavy stones. "One of these islands here, hm?"

Ricky stared at the islands, at how small they were in comparison to the rest of the places on the map. He could feel a strange embarrassment in his chest. "I... I don't know which one."

"That one." The rider interrupted without care, shoving Ricky aside in order to place a finger on one of the islands closest to the mainland. "Who knew such a small place could house people with such big egos, hm?"

"Well your home has to have special little paintings all around it," said Ricky icily, causing faces to turn to him in surprise. "So I suppose you'd know all about big egos."

Tinsley stared at him in silence for a moment. He didn't seem to like what he was seeing.

Without warning, he struck Ricky across the face with the back of his hand. It wasn't a mere tap; Ricky stumbled aside on impact, his ears ringing so shrilly that he couldn't even hear the raised voices turned against Tinsley. He felt hands on him, but he was alright. He'd felt worse physical pain than a slap. It was his emotions, his pride, that felt truly stung. His hearing came back slowly, and sounds were echoed, thick, as if underwater.

The Mayor was snapping at Tinsley, jabbing a finger in his chest. He didn't seem such a gentle giant anymore; he was fearsome. "Don't you do anything like that again, you hear me? I respect you but you are _not_ in charge here."

"You have to tame people like that," replied Tinsley coolly. "You have to teach them harshly or they'll never learn."

"He's only young."

"He's not that young. You just think that anyone without facial hair is a child." Tinsley turned his gaze to Ricky; there was no remorse on his face. "What age are you?"

Ricky's reply was stony. His cheek still burned. "Twenty-eight."

"See? He's not young. Just... inexperienced, by the look of things. A bit dim, perhaps." Tinsley was once again speaking as if Ricky had left the room. "When I was his age I knew how to act, and so did you."

"I'm not too sure about that," said the Mayor. "That's a long way back for me. Maybe not for you, as much."

Ricky's eyes flickered between them, returning to Tinsley. "I know how to act. It's _you_ who doesn't know how to act."

Tinsley's hand twitched; he wanted to hit him again. "You should go home, little man. You don't belong anywhere here."

Ricky looked at him, disdainful. "You have no authority over me."

This didn't seem to go down well with Tinsley. His gaze grew harder, hard enough to bruise. Ricky swallowed, but refused to look away from those violent eyes. They held an impossible amount of rage in them, they positively burned with anger. Ricky was surprised his skin wasn't beginning to sizzle under their intensity. It was too late before Ricky realized that being at the centre of Tinsley's attention was not going to be a pleasant experience.

The Mayor stepped between them, giving Tinsley a stern look before turning to Ricky. "Are you hungry, lad?"

Ricky nodded.

"Manda, bring him to the food tent."

Tinsley watched them go with just his eyes. Manda pulled back the tent flap, letting Ricky go outside first, but not before he and Tinsley shared one last lingering glare.

"That guy is trouble," said Tinsley once the tent flap had fallen back into place. "You didn't see him on that island he calls home. He was more than ready to have me killed. He's done it before."

The Mayor sat down on a chair beside the stove, letting out a tired sigh. "You've killed people too, have you not?"

"It's different."

"How so?"

"I killed for freedom. He kills because he's insane." Tinsley slipped his fingers around the hilt of his rapier, a gesture he had been sorely missing since it had been taken. "And they drown people. That's a slow death. I always kill quick, and I do it with my own hand."

The Mayor grumbled for a moment. "Some say drowning is the most peaceful way to die."

"How would they know? Were they tied up in a pit as a sacrifice? Most likely not."

The Mayor watched him stalk back and forth. There was an anger in him that hadn't always been there. It made his movements harsher, made his words sharper. Tinsley had never been the friendliest person on the planet, but at least he used to smile.

"I'd heard you were dead, you know," said the Mayor quietly. "I heard about what happened on the Roost."

Tinsley slowed to a halt. "I'm meant to be dead. They'd scheduled my execution." A pause. "Holly let me free. On the account that I didn't bring Sky."

The Mayor raised a bushy brow. "Yet you have Sky."

"Yes. I do." Tinsley lowered his gaze. "They took everything from me. I wasn't going to let them take her too. I'd rather have just let them hang me." He started pacing again, taking his gloves from his pocket and pulling them back on. "They were going to do it in public too. Have everyone see me die. Let them know it was all over. It was either that or run away and hide like a miserable little coward. And that's what I chose. Everyone thought I was so brave and honorable and- and people used to look up to me, you know. They used to cheer when they saw me. Kids used to tell me they wanted to be like me. Grown _adults_ used to tell me they wanted to be like me." He stopped his frantic rambling, suddenly falling quiet. "I didn't want to die. I didn't want to be remembered like that, coughing and choking and going blue in the face. I was... I was frightened, Absalom."

The Mayor wanted to get up and pull him into a comforting hug, but he knew Tinsley hated that sort of thing. He settled for words. "You're allowed to be frightened, Tinsley. You've had so much weight on your shoulders for so long."

"I know. I know, but now I don't know what to do with myself." Tinsley finally sat, slumping into the chair across from the Mayor, chin on his chest. "I was raised for battle. I don't know how else to live." His voice went quiet, barely audible above the crackling logs in the fire. "I miss it."

"You can't possibly miss war, Tinsley."

"But I _do."_ Tinsley was on his feet again, pushing himself off the chair with a level of grace that was entirely unexpected of a man of his stature. "I want to go back. I wasn't finished."

The Mayor gave him a long look. "Well I hope you're not here to finish whatever you started on the Roost. I want to avoid violence here. I want no bloodshed." He watched the way Tinsley's gloved hand tightened and tightened again on the hilt of his rapier. "And you're to leave that lad alone, by the way."

Tinsley turned to face him. "You should hand him over to me. I'll whip him into shape. Disobedience means disaster in times like this."

"You are not to lay a hand on him."

"He laid a hand on me when I was his captive," said Tinsley, his face and voice stony. "I only want justice."

"Justice for who? Yourself? Personal justice is vengeance, Tinsley, and that leads to nothing but an endless circle of violence." The Mayor shook his head once, getting to his feet. "I'm sorry, but I won't have it."

Tinsley stared at him, and again there was that sudden fury radiating from him in waves of heat. "Fine."

The Mayor placed a hand on Tinsley's shoulder, the only form of affection Tinsley ever allowed. "Get some rest. Sky too. You need it."

Tinsley dropped his gaze. Then he nodded, reluctantly accepting the order. He went back out into the cold harsh white of the world, looking about for Sky. She was just beyond the encampment, agitating the mammoths by tugging on their tails whenever they turned away. Some of the miners stood around, wondering how to stop her in her mischievous tracks. Tinsley left her to it; she had to entertain herself in some way or else she'd become increasingly restless throughout the afternoon, and he'd rather the miners than himself be at the receiving end of her boredom.

He took off toward the food tent, his stomach grumbling at him. He should've eaten before drinking that akevitt. He hadn't had alcohol in a long while, but the stuff they drank here hardly counted as a comforting sort of drink. It hurt to swallow it.

The river rushed past to his left, curling and writhing in deep black ripples. He came to a halt, spying a figure down on the snowy bank. The priest was sitting on his salt-smelling coat, hugging his knees to his chest, his borrowed winter cloak hugged tight around him so that he was nothing more than a black hole in the snow. Tinsley tutted behind his teeth, beginning the snowy descent down the bank. His footsteps crunched to a halt a metre or so from Ricky, who threw him a scowl over his shoulder before facing back to the water again. Tinsley narrowed his eyes at him.

“What are you doing.”

Ricky didn’t respond. The fur around his shoulders shifted as he pulled his cloak tighter.

“I know you’re technically a hostage here, but that doesn’t mean you can’t help out.” Tinsley narrowed his eyes at him. “So get up and help pitch some tents. We're staying here for the night.”

Ricky ignored him again. The cold breeze ruffled his dark curls, the only movement made. Tinsley let out an impatient sigh, striding forwards to grab Ricky by the arm, fingers digging in. Ricky glared up at him, a warning, his bottom lip pushed out into a slight pout. Tinsley wanted to punch it back into line.

“You’re lucky that you’re not mine,” growled Tinsley, eyes narrowing hatefully, “or I’d have had you tied and lashed the second you showed this insolence.”

Ricky attempted to pull his arm free; the fingers only clawed in further. Tinsley held him easily - he wasn’t physically stronger, but he had more control over his strength, a familiarity with using it, a familiarity that Ricky didn’t have.

Ricky pulled back, and pulled again, glaring. “Leave me alone.”

“It's not nice to be held against your will, is it not?" Tinsley smiled, a cruel one. "And to think you were so cocksure when I was in your position.”

“I didn’t treat you like this.” Ricky let himself be dragged to his feet, slipping slightly in the snow. His eyes found Tinsley’s, held them, burrowed their way into them. “You’re a bitter man and I don’t care to find out why.”

Tinsley didn’t reply for a second, his eyes locked on Ricky’s, unable to look away from the unnerving depth of them. Then he gave him a sharp shake, hard enough to force a surprised gasp from Ricky’s mouth, and hard enough to break the uncomfortable stare. The cloak slipped from Ricky’s shoulders and into the soft snow. His shirt was thin. Tinsley held him in place, in the cold, both their breaths fogging. He held him until he could feel him beginning to shiver, until he could feel the clenching of muscle in his arm, and yet still Ricky didn’t complain, his face growing red with the cold, his teeth gritted to try and stop them from chattering. Tinsley’s stare was unmerciful, his clear blue eyes by far the coldest thing Ricky was experiencing in that moment. Then Tinsley released him, and Ricky almost wished his hand would return, if only to provide some level of warmth. Tinsley nodded at the cloak and coat in the snow.

“Put those back on. You can die of the cold. And when you’re done, come to the Mayor's tent. I’ll assign you some suitable jobs.”

Ricky retrieved his cloak first, wrapping himself up in the heaviness of it, tucking his mouth and nose behind the furs as he watched the rider stride back up the snowy slope, one gloved hand resting on the hilt of his rapier. Ricky pulled on his coat and cloak properly before following Tinsley's footsteps in the snow, hopping up the slope, having to stretch a little to match Tinsley's long strides.

"What's a suitable job for me?" he called.

Tinsley turned to raise an eyebrow at him. He didn't comment on the hopping from footstep-to-footstep that Ricky was occupied with. He didn't quite know how to. "Something that suits your build and strength."

"Yeah? Like what?" Ricky finally reached him, cheeks flushed and damp with the melting snow. "Shoveling snow? I can do that."

"No you can't."

"I can. I'm strong."

Tinsley looked him over, an eyebrow arched. "You're a bit soft around the middle."

Ricky's brows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"You're a bit soft." Tinsley gave him a poke in the stomach, as if to prove his point. "You'd tire within minutes. I think I'll put you on dish washing."

Ricky placed a hand on his stomach, his face reddening, and not just due to the cold. "Dish washing? Like a child?"

Tinsley quirked an eyebrow. "Yes. Exactly like a child." He moved on.

Ricky followed doggedly, pulling his cloak tighter around him to stop the wet hem from getting tangled around his feet. "I can do more than washing dishes."

"Washing dishes is an essential part of the day-to-day routine, along with setting fires, hunting, skinning, cooking. Keep things going at the bottom and the top will run almost without need for interference." He was striding towards the Mayor's tent; he never seemed to just walk. All Ricky had seen him do so far was stride with his back straight and head high, as if into an important meeting where all eyes would be on him. "I'm sure this is a change for you, little man. Spent your time up on a pedestal back on your home island, hm? I doubt you've ever even washed a dish."

"I've washed a dish," replied Ricky moodily. "And it was sparkling clean, I'll have you know."

"Well, let's see if you'll live up to your word, shall we?"

Ricky ducked into the tent behind him, and the warmth was as welcome to him as rain to a drought-ridden field. "And what are _you_ going to spend your time doing? Enjoying the fruits of my labour?"

"You mean eating off a clean dish?" Tinsley turned on his heel to face him. "Yes. I hope so."

Ricky glared at him. He wasn't sure if Tinsley was being serious or not; the man's face remained stony and impassive, his voice deep and darkly warm, yet his words were relatively light and playful. Ricky couldn't even begin to read him. He was a book in a different language altogether, not even a familiar letter present. Ricky remembered what he had done to the last book he hadn't liked; he could still see the pages curling and blackening in the flames. Tinsley turned away and continued further into the tent, towards the stove. Ricky watched him with narrowed eyes. He wouldn't burn this man. He'd drown him, hold his head under the waves until he succumbed to the sweetness of the sea. He was blasphemy personified. The gods wanted him, and Ricky would make sure they received him.

But he would have to be smart about it. Sly. Tinsley reminded him of the soldiers in the fairytales, the warlords glorified. He was bigger than him, rougher, and Ricky had to assume that he could use the weapons that hung off his belt as familiarly as leaves hung off a tree. Tinsley was looking back at him now, brows drawn together into a frown.

"Get that gormless look off your face."

Ricky blinked himself back into the present. "Sorry?"

Tinsley eyed him warily. "What were you thinking about just there."

Ricky smiled at him, an unabashedly smug one. “I just remembered something.”

“And what’s that.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.” Ricky sat down on one of the chairs, and he somehow managed to make it seem like it was the comfiest piece of furniture around, sitting at an angle with his legs crossed and his wrists draping over the ends of the wooden arms. He was slowly pushed the ring on his right hand around the finger with his thumb. “I think I’ll be perfectly fine in here. Now, if that’s all, you can leave.”

Tinsley watched him closely, unimpressed. “Do you enjoy making enemies, Ricky?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never had one.” He thought back to the chief, eyes moving up and to the side. “Well, perhaps I had _one._ You’re a bit like him, actually. Entitled. Aggressive. Hateful. Hateful of me specifically.” He studied the ring on his finger, the black stone glimmering. “And all for no reason.”

“I hate you because you tried to kill me,” said Tinsley through gritted teeth.

Ricky gave him a withering look. “Are you really going to hang onto that forever?”

“You’re getting a bit too comfortable here,” said Tinsley, taking a threatening step forwards.

“Well I’m trying.” Ricky looked him over, a dark eyebrow arched. _“Someone_ is making it a bit difficult for me.”

“You think _this_ is me making things difficult for you?” He smiled, more of a baring of teeth than anything else. “Just you wait and see.”

Ricky stared at him for a moment with large innocent eyes. Then he waved his hands. “Well, I’m waiting. Put on a show already.” Still with his eyes on Tinsley’s he uncrossed his legs, spreading them, shifting his hips to draw attention. He smiled again, that sly curve of his mouth. “Don’t go easy on me.”

Tinsley’s face went bright red. He seemed both baffled and infuriated; he knew what Ricky was insinuating, and he wished he didn’t know. “Don’t be disgusting.“

Ricky grinned with sharp teeth, resting his head back against the chair, baring his throat. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re all bark. I’ll be terribly disappointed.”

“I thought you were a religious man. But now you’re a whore too?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what one is.”

Tinsley gave him a flat look. “A person who sells their body.”

Ricky pursed his lips. “Well then no, I’m not one. But if I was, I’d be the richest man alive.”

Tinsley tutted through his teeth. “Close your legs. I don’t find the invitation appealing in the slightest.”

Ricky raised an eyebrow, lids remaining heavy. “Sure.” He crossed his legs again with a lazy motion. “What has you so prude, hm?”

Tinsley’s chin lowered slightly, his intense gaze still fixed on Ricky. He decided that he didn’t just dislike him, he found him downright revolting. He was murderous, lustful, unstable. He and his people. Not for the first time, Tinsley wished he still had the power he’d once had. He’d destroy this man’s home in a day, run its people into the ground, burn the dirty hovels they called houses. They’d see how minuscule their gods really were once they’d seen the explosion from a gun’s barrel.

Tinsley’s face softened a tad, but it wasn’t comforting. Ricky shifted in his seat. He watched in silence as Tinsley drew that strange contraption from his belt; a pistol, he called it.

“Do you see this, Ricky?” Tinsley came closer with slow steps, holding the pistol to the light. Its dark wood shone. “This is a one-way ticket to meeting those gods you like so much. This here could blow your pretty little head right off. I have one outside that could open your entire ribcage with one shot.” He stopped in front of him, holding the handle of the pistol in one gloved hand, the barrel resting in the other, almost lovingly. His eyes met Ricky’s again. “I’d advise that while you’re here, you remember your place.”

Ricky’s smirk had slid off his face, but the defiance was still present in his dark eyes. “And what would happen to me if I were to step out of line, hm?”

Tinsley raised the pistol, pressing the barrel against Ricky’s forehead, pinning the dark curls there against his skin. The sharp click that rang out made Ricky flinch in alarm, pressing back against the chair; his knuckles were white with the force of his grip on it. His eyes were wide, frightened, a swift and sudden change from his previous confidence - a change that Tinsley greatly appreciated.

Tinsley smiled, taking his thumb off the hammer of the pistol. “You can talk about gods all you want, but you’re still just a man. I’m sure you bleed like all the rest.” He withdrew the pistol, returning it to his belt. “But don’t tempt me into checking.”

Ricky was quiet then. He watched as Tinsley headed back into the snow outside, letting the tent flap swing closed behind him. Only then did Ricky allow himself to relax, shoulders slumping, breath escaping his lungs in a single exhale. What an awful individual - violence in corporeal form. When Ricky thought of him now he couldn't help but think of blood and death as well; Tinsley reeked of each.

The gods were testing him again, placing an obstacle in his path. But Ricky would overcome it. He had no choice; he had been chosen.


	7. Tales and Truths

The tents had been packed up and placed on the sled carts for the great woolly mammoths to continue dragging along in the snow. Ricky watched them slouch past, all shaggy-haired and kind-eyed, their trunks poking and prodding anything of interest. A few brushed Ricky as they passed by, sniffing at his clothing, tugging at his hair. He didn't mind. When he'd first seen them he had been terrified of their curved tusks and hulking bodies, but now he was quite fond of them. The island wouldn't believe half the things he'd have to tell when he returned home. Whenever that was going to be.

He had decided to stick with the miners, for now. Or at least he liked to act as if it was his decision. The Mayor seemed unwilling to let him walk off freely, certain that Ricky would perish in a day.

"It's a long walk to the nearest inn, lad," he had said as he tied up the logs he had just chopped for the fires at their next camp. It was an endless routine - stop, burn wood for fires, wake up, chop wood for fires, move on, stop, burn wood for fires... "Twice as long with your little legs."

Ricky was beginning to get irritated with the word 'little' being used so casually to describe him. There was no malicious intent on the part of Manda and the Mayor - he supposed in comparison to them he was quite little - but Tinsley seemed to garner some enjoyment from looking down at him and addressing him as 'little man', coating the words in condescension until they dripped with it.

"I think you'd be fine out in the wilderness by yourself," Tinsley had said, standing in the doorway to the tent with his arms folded and his stance lax, a hip out to one side, "With all the other mangy creatures. It's where you belong, little man."

 _Little man, little man, little man._ Ricky wasn't even little compared to Tinsley, he was just shorter by a head. Perhaps a head and a half. It didn't _matter._ It was definitely only a head when Ricky stood up straight. And he was certain that if Tinsley wore boots without a stirrup heel it would be even less of a gap. He was sure of it. Tinsley gave him an amused look, as if he knew exactly what Ricky was thinking. Ricky fought the urge to stick his tongue out at him.

Ricky stuck close to the river as they walked, comforted just by the sound and sight of the seawater swirling past. The miners seemed hesitant to come close to him. He supposed he must look quite strange in their eyes, but no stranger than Tinsley with his bright gilded coat and weapons that flashed when the slanted sun hit them. Ricky looked around for him, as a deer looks around for a mountain lion, eyes large and ears pricked. He didn't seem to be nearby in the throng of black cloaks. He couldn't see the griffin either. He looked to the sky, squinting against the grey brightness peeking through the clouds. There was a bird above them, but he couldn't tell whether it was a normal one, or a griffin high, high up in the air. He hoped it was the griffin, and he hoped Tinsley was on it, and he hoped they flew up and up and up and out of his life forever, as swiftly as they'd entered it.

"Amazing, isn't it?"

Ricky turned to watch the Mayor approaching. His mane of hair was as white as snow on his shoulders. "What is?"

The Mayor nodded upwards. "To be so high up in the air. Imagine what the land must look like from there."

Ricky turned his eyes back up to the bird, watching it soar in a slow circle. Now that he looked closer, he could see the long outstretched neck of the griffin, the back legs which shouldn't be on any sort of bird. "Is Tinsley up there?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why not?" The Mayor smiled at him; it was hard to see his mouth behind his facial hair, but his cheeks lifted and his eyes crinkled kindly. "If I had the option to fly away into the air where no one could touch me or talk to me for a little while, I think I would."

Ricky kicked at the snow below him. "I hope he stays up there." His eyes brightened. "Or I hope he falls off and all the way down and dies. And I see it. I hope he falls right in front of me and-" He threw his arms out, hands spread, his coat tossed back as he did so. "-splat."

The Mayor raised a bushy eyebrow. "You do?"

Ricky dropped his arms back to his sides. "A little."

"He's not so bad."

"He's awful."

"Perhaps because you did try to murder him?"

"Not murder," said Ricky with a sidelong look. "Sacrifice."

"...Those are one and the same under the law here, Ricky."

Ricky shrugged. "The law here isn't the law I follow."

The Mayor couldn't help but smile a little. "You sound like him, sometimes."

Ricky gave him a long look with his shiny black-brown eyes. His eyes were incredibly expressive, the Mayor had noticed, especially due to the thick dark brows above them, brows almost too masculine for an otherwise softly pretty face. They shot up and down in unison and separately, betraying whatever emotions were in the man's head at any time. Right now, one of these eyebrows were arched, the other drawn down, a look of certain doubt.

"Sacrifices are essential," said Ricky as if it was the most obvious fact in the world. "The gods require blood and life. Murder isn't essential."

"Well, perhaps you're not so similar to Tinsley after all," muttered the Mayor.

"Good. I'd be highly insulted if you truly thought that." He looked up to the clouds again. "I'm not cold and cruel."

"He isn't so cold. I've known him for a long while."

"I extend my sympathies for your struggle. You must be his only friend."

“Some people find it difficult to let themselves be known,” said the Mayor, his cloak held fast by his folded arms. “And none more so than people from the Roost. You can only understand if you’ve been; there, you don’t touch anyone, and no one touches you. Tinsley is the product of his circumstances, as we all are.”

Ricky mulled this over behind distant eyes. “But why? Why are their circumstances like that?”

“It’s just their way. Privacy and independence.”

“And so they’re cold.”

“They’re not cold,” reprimanded the Mayor, looking at Ricky. This man seemed to be in a rush to learn everything at once, jumping to conclusions with certainty as if the quicker he learnt the quicker he'd be able to move on with his journey. “You just don’t understand them, and you’re frustrated because of it.”

Ricky kicked at a stone, sending it into a small pile of slush, where it remained stuck, and would probably remain so for a long while. “Well Tinsley’s cold.”

A loud laugh. “Alright, yes, he’s cold, I’ll admit that. Colder than most.”

“Why?” Ricky looked up at the man beside him. “Why is he so horrible?”

“Well, Tinsley just isn’t that nice of a person at the moment, I’m afraid." The Mayor went quiet, taking a rumbling breath. "He's had a rough few years.”

Ricky hugged himself at the sudden icy gust that cut through him, making his teeth chatter. “That's no excuse. Everyone has rough years. I've had rough years and I'm not a bad person."

The Mayor smiled, a sad one. “I doubt your years have been as rough as Tinsley's, I'll have to say."

Ricky tossed his hair back with slight derisiveness. "You don't know that."

Once again the Mayor noticed a striking similarity between this man and Tinsley, a perceived superiority to those around them, right down to the deft tossing of hair and lifting of chin. "So do you think you’re a good person, Ricky?”

Ricky pondered this, but he didn’t get far. “I think-"

The snow around them began to shift rhythmically, flurries rising and falling and rising and falling, brushing over their boots. The air was whipped into their own private gale, making Ricky's hair fly wildly about his head, his coat billowing around him, mirroring the Mayor's cloak.

The ground trembled as the griffin landed in front of them, back paws first before its scaly front feet thumped through the snow and to the ice-packed earth below. Ricky moved closer to the Mayor, eyes large, unable to look away from the beast. It shook itself, white and grey feathers ruffled and puffed on its neck and chest, the two long dark feathers above its yellow eyes waving smoothly. It was about the size of a draft horse, but its neck added to its length, its wings made it seem all the larger - its wingspan must have measured two Mayors, at least. These wings were still outstretched, the tip of the feathers just touching the snow. It turned its head this way and that, allowing both yellow eyes to get a good look at Ricky. He stood still, staring back. He could hear a strange clucking and cooing coming from deep in its throat.

Then it crouched down slightly, dipping one shoulder, and Tinsley climbed off, landing lightly in the snow. He patted her neck, holding the long reins of the bridle that rested around her beak. Ricky was staring, and Tinsley was staring back, face stony. There was a blatantly challenging look in his eyes. Ricky could almost hear his thoughts; _go on, little man, run away with your tail between your legs._ They were quite an intimidating pair, Ricky had to admit, picturesque in the cold sunlight. Tinsley seemed to know this. He let his head tilt back a tad so he was looking down his pointed nose in Ricky's direction. Ricky kept his eyes on Tinsley's cold blue ones; they were easier to look at than the piercing yellow ones hovering just above Tinsley's head.

Tinsley moved away from the griffin, and her neck swung around so that she could rest her beak on his shoulder. He kept walking as he gave it a distracted pat - the sound was hollow - until he was too far and her beak slipped off him. She finally folded her great wings against her flanks and turned away, making a beeline for the river and the plump fat fish swimming beneath the surface. Tinsley looked at the Mayor.

"Not much further. About another half a day's march, but I think a blizzard isn't far off."

The Mayor nodded. "I see. Any movement around the city?"

"A bit. As expected."

"But no more than that?"

"Not that I saw, but that doesn't mean there isn't any." He raised an eyebrow. "You're putting too much trust in them." He let his gaze move to Ricky, but continued speaking to the Mayor. "You put too much trust in strangers in general."

Ricky's eyes narrowed.

The Mayor pulled at his beard distractedly. "They seem relatively willing to cooperate. If they wanted us gone, we'd already be gone."

Tinsley didn't reply. His face said it all. The Mayor gave him a stern look from under his bushy brows.

"We'll stop at the dam and organize ourselves a little. If that makes you happy."

"You don't have to make him happy," piped up Ricky, hands on his hips. "These are _your_ people, are they not?"

Tinsley's head whipped around to stare at him. "And you think you have a say in any of this?"

"I'm just a neutral observer," replied Ricky with a smile. "Don't get so upset."

"You're not a neutral observer," hissed Tinsley, his words laced with venom. "You're a little prick."

Ricky shrugged. The Mayor stepped in with his rumbling voice.

"We'll stop at the dam. We can talk then once we've gotten warm and eaten something other than dried crackers."

He lumbered off towards the rest of the miners, who were still filing past, a great swath of black cloaks, mirroring the black river to their right. Tinsley didn't move to join them. Neither did Ricky.

"How did you even get out of Snow's End?" asked Tinsley, half-curious and half-irritated.

"The river."

"That's a lie. The river is grated on both sides of the city."

Ricky shrugged again, the gesture accompanied by a lazy blink. "You must be wrong."

"I'm not wrong."

"We'll see."

Ricky flashed him a smile before turning away and heading back towards the miners. The snow crunched under his boots, and surprisingly, he heard an echo to them. Tinsley had followed him.

“Why are you even on the mainland?” asked the rider, easily catching up with him.

Ricky's reply was simple. “I was sent here.”

“Your island didn’t want you, no? How shocking.”

“They wanted me.” Ricky thought of Anton. The ring was still on the leather strip around his neck. “But I was chosen to come here by the gods.”

“Oh, here we go.”

“Well how did _you_ end up on my island? It was to find _me.”_ Ricky smiled, very much self-important. “How does it feel to be nothing but a tool to make sure my destiny runs as it should? You’re alive for me, and me only.”

Tinsley rolled his eyes, but otherwise didn’t respond. He was swiftly developing a habit of ending their conversations with a sudden derisive silence, or if he was in a particularly good mood, a blow of air from his nose. Ricky watched him sidelong; from this angle he could see his lashes, and he noticed how long and feathery they were, a strikingly delicate addition to his otherwise stony face. Ricky could remember first seeing that face - on a beach, in the dead of night, Tinsley's brows drawn together in confusion as he saw Ricky standing in the surf, only to vanish seconds later.

“Are you still in denial about seeing me on that beach?” asked Ricky.

Tinsley didn’t reply for a few long seconds. Their boots crunched through the snow, the sound lost with all the rest. “As a matter of fact, yes. Because I’m sane.”

“Tell me,” began Ricky with a smile, “Did you by any chance have a headache for a few days before meeting me?”

Tinsley laughed quietly. “I’ve had an even worse one since meeting you, little man.”

“You joke to avoid answering.”

“I do. Quite often.”

“You can’t grasp the power of the gods with your mainlander brain,” said Ricky with raised eyebrows, keeping pace beside the taller man. “You’d be too weak to handle such an understanding.”

Tinsley didn’t look at him. “Were you ever disciplined as a child?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been punished for acting out of line?”

“My home doesn’t have such an obsession with good behaviour as you do.”

“Which is why you’re all savages, I suppose.”

Ricky laughed sharply. “You call me a savage when you’re the one to jump to violence in response to all and everything.”

Tinsley came to a sudden halt. “Violence and savagery are not the same thing.”

“Yes they are.”

“Savagery means being uncontrolled,” said Tinsley icily. “Wild. Unruly. A danger to the people around them. You should be back on your island where you belong.”

Ricky raised a dark eyebrow. “But _you’re_ not controlled.”

“Yes I am.”

“You’re barely holding yourself together.” Ricky smiled, truly delighted at the way Tinsley’s jaw sharpened when he clenched it. “How do you live like that? Ready to snap at any second? Must be awfully stressful.” A glimmer in his eyes. “I could help relieve you of such stress, you know.”

Tinsley had fixed him with that intense glare that seemed to be on his face more often than not. It was a look so cold it made his blue eyes burn like fresh ice. “No one’s around to protect you now, little man. And all I need is five minutes to make sure you learn to think before opening your stupid little mouth.”

Ricky gave him a withering look. “Oh, will you _discipline_ me? How would you go about it?” A mischievous grin, a flash of teeth. “Put me over your knee and sp-”

Tinsley grabbed a fistful of the front of Ricky's shirt, yanking him forwards, ignoring the way he scrambled to stay upright in the slippery snow, the way his hands grabbed onto Tinsley's arm for balance as he fell against him.

“Shut up," snarled Tinsley, giving him a sharp shake. "Just shut the fuck up.”

He shoved Ricky away with enough force to have him land flat on his back into the snow with a soft thump. Yet still Ricky laughed, a breathless sound, surprised eyes fixed on the thick grey clouds above.

“How controlled you are, big man!” he called, propping himself up on his elbows to watch Tinsley storm off through the people. “I’ll try my very hardest to be just like you!”

Tinsley shook his head like a dog trying to shake off fleas, but other than that didn’t react. Ricky lay where he was for a moment, propped on an elbow, as if he had chosen to fall there and watch the world go by. He looked at the river. On the opposite bank the griffin stood, its feathers drifting in the cold wind. Its neck was rising slowly, head tilted aside to fix one unblinking yellow eye on Ricky. Ricky decided to rejoin the crowd, quick-sharp, dusting the snow off his shoulders.

* * *

The atmosphere in the coffeehouse was subdued. It had every right to be. There had been a raid the night before. Five scholars arrested. They were to be tried on the morrow. Francesca sat alone, and without any book at all, even a permitted one. She didn't want any reason at all for a Librarian to set their eyes on her. She stirred her cup of coffee, letting out a quiet sigh. She added a spoonful of sugar and tasted it. It was fine, but she added another spoon of sugar anyway. It was needed this morning.

A quiet voice disturbed her. "Hi."

Fran smiled at her friend. "Hi."

The woman sat across from her, tucking her dark hair behind her ears, a habitual gesture. "You heard about last night, yes?"

Fran nodded, placing her spoon down on the saucer under her coffee cup. "Yes. I didn't hear any details, though."

The woman glanced one way and then the other, almost comically dramatic, but for the circumstances that squashed any humour flat. She leaned forwards, one arm resting on the table between them. "Apparently they were studying a forbidden book about Flora and Fauna."

Fran was suddenly very interested. Her interest in forbidden books was only getting stronger with each day that passed, and with each event that showed the world that the Council had things that they very much wanted to be kept hidden. "Where did you hear that?"

The woman paused. "A friend." She pressed her lips into a line at the dejection on Fran's face. "I'm sorry. I do trust you, I do. But right now... I think patience will be more beneficial right now."

Fran understood. She also understood that, in this woman's life, she must be on the outer circle of a very interesting group indeed. This woman knew much more than Fran did, and so Fran would much rather be left out of certain things temporarily than demand she be included and be left out potentially forever.

"That's okay," she said, trying a smile.

The woman smiled back, visibly relieved. Then her face went serious again, her brows drawing together as she leaned forwards. "They had found an old geology book. And I mean old. As in, about this land and what was here before us."

Fran had also leaned forwards, unblinking. "But what would geology have to do with that?"

The response was whispered. "There were records in the book about fossils discovered _inland."_ She swallowed. "Sea fossils."

Fran took a moment to grasp this. "...How far inland?"

"Some found as far inland as the Darkwoods. Even the Grand Market. Fossils of sea creatures way above sea level. You understand?"

Fran nodded slowly. Her coffee was cooling rapidly beside her hand. "But... that's impossible."

"So we've been taught to believe," replied the woman, challenging. "Just because some holy books were from ancient civilizations doesn't mean that everything in them is wrong." She glanced around the room swiftly; people were occupied with their coffees and teas and books and notebooks. A woman in the far corner enjoyed a black pastry in the northern style. "And apparently there were maps. Maps that showed rivers and lakes in places where now there lies nothing but valleys."

"...So the holy books are accurate?"

"In the regard that the entirety of this land was once underwater? It seems like it could be a possibility." A heavy pause. "They burned the book."

Fran's heart broke. She didn't know what to say, so she said nothing, simply letting her eyes close. A moment of silence passed between the two women.

"How is your studying going?" asked the woman, her voice level but her eyes meaningful.

Fran caught on instantly; her hand still hurt from transcribing the book, her eyes burned from the low candlelight she'd had to use. "I'm about halfway through, I think. I'll probably be finished by the weekend."

"Before inauguration on Sunday?" She met Fran's inquisitive gaze. "I think it would be a good idea to have it done before then."

Fran searched her deep eyes. They were pretty eyes, large and round, like a doll's, although with much more life to them. Fran was excited by this woman; she knew so many things that most did not, and was able to communicate secrecies so casually that Fran couldn't help but wonder how often she did it. "Okay. I'll finish them before then."

The woman smiled with her dark painted lips. "I have every faith in you."

Fran smiled back. She turned her attention to her coffee, frowning when she realized it had gone cold. The woman seemed to notice. She extended her thin pale hand and touched the cup lightly.

"Oh dear. That's my fault, I think." She smiled. "I'm going to get one anyway, so I'll get you another."

"It's fine! Honestly, I'll buy my own-"

"It's the least I can do." The woman got to her feet. "I'd like someone to keep me company, anyway, seeing as I brought no books. And I see you had the same... precaution."

Fran sat back, folding her hands on the table. "Well then yes, that'd be great. Thank you."

The woman looked at her. "You don't know my name yet, do you?"

Fran shook her head. The woman mulled it over for a moment.

"Well, you can call me Dee - as in the letter - if you want."

Fran wanted to respond with something just as mysterious, but Dee bet her to it.

"You don't have to tell me your name. We call you the Scribe."

Fran blinked. "We?"

Dee winked before moving off to get the coffee, and Fran smiled to herself and her new title. She was getting her foot in the door of something, that was for sure. She wanted to write to her father and let him know, but she was also well aware that seals were broken at borders without fear of repercussion. She couldn't risk sending a letter with such information. She'd have to be patient, just like Dee said.

The curtained door to the coffeehouse fluttered. All eyes turned to it as it was drawn aside fully, and in stepped two Librarians, one holding a Rota in a velvet-gloved hand. Fran felt herself break out in a cold sweat. She could almost hear the pulses rise in everyone around her. This coffeehouse had been untouched by Council presence, until now, until this very moment. One of the Librarians spoke out.

"You all know the drill. Stay where you are and wait until we get to you." She glanced around the small dark room, all the alarmed faces, before her gaze landed on Fran in the corner. "We'll start at the back."

The bigger Librarian came over. He opened the Rota with one hand, unstopping the jar of ink on his belt and dipping in the nib of his quill. "Name?"

She swallowed hard. Her voice came out weedy. "Francesca Norris."

The Librarian wrote down her name, then checked the grandfather clock for the time and wrote it down, and then wrote down the location. "Reason for being here?"

"...I wanted coffee."

He seemed uninterested in this uninteresting answer. "Bag out. Come on. I don't have all day."

She lifted her satchel onto the table and he rifled through it. She glanced around for Dee; she was nowhere to be seen. The barista came out from the room behind the counter, wiping his hands on his apron, casual despite the flustered look on his face. He looked at Fran and looked away. The Librarian moved on, his monotonous voice buzzing in her ears. She wondered what Dee was hiding that had made her run away.

* * *

A blizzard was settling in. Ricky didn't know what a blizzard was, but he assumed it was bad news; the air smelt colder, harsher, the wind was rough, and the air seemed to be growing frosted, like ice creeping up a pane of glass. From all around him came the sound of hammers hitting metal pegs into the ground as the miners set up their tents with impressive organization and speed. They seemed to move as one, cogs in the same system. Ricky stood on the outskirts and for once, felt a little bit useless.

He felt a large hand between his shoulder blades, and waited for Tinsley's harsh voice to begin berating him, as it so often did. He was pleasantly surprised at the voice he heard instead.

"Come along, lad," said the Mayor, guiding him through the tents and the snow that was beginning to pick up in drifts. "You'll share my tent tonight."

"Oh. Thank you."

The dark front of the tent loomed out of the white air, and the Mayor ushered Ricky into the warmth inside. The walls of the tent flapped and billowed, but otherwise were holding fast. There were multiple camp beds set up, towards the centre of the tent.

"It's safer for people to group in tents during blizzards," said the Mayor. "More heat, and less chance of someone wandering out and getting lost."

Ricky undid the damp cloak from around his neck, moving towards the various stoves set along the back wall. "What's a blizzard?"

"A snowstorm," said the Mayor. "The wind whips the snow around until you're entirely blinded. If you're caught in one, you're a goner."

Ricky liked how the Mayor didn't look down on him for not knowing certain things like this. If Ricky asked, the Mayor answered, simple as. "How long do they last for?"

"Usually a few hours."

Ricky nodded, sitting in a chair by the fire, pulling off his borrowed gloves - they were a little too big for him, but he tied the wrists with string. "And when was the last time you made a sacrifice to the gods?"

The Mayor shook his head, somewhat amused. "Never. And I never will."

"Then the storms will keep coming."

The camp bed on the opposite side of the stove stirred, and the occupier sat upright, pulling the covers from over his head. "Are you fucking serious."

Ricky stared at Tinsley and his sleep-bleary face. "...I didn't know you were there. I'm sorry for waking you."

"That's not what I'm talking about. I meant are you serious about sacrifices and all that bullshit." Tinsley got out of the bed - he was still fully dressed, having only laid down for a nap while the moment allowed it. "Keep your insanity to yourself, little man."

Ricky gritted his teeth. "I'm not insane."

"You are. You're a madman and you don't even try to hide it."

The Mayor gave him a heavy look. "Come on, Tinsley. Let him be for a moment."

"Oh stop treating him like a child, Absalom. He's a grown man and he's dangerous and I don't trust him enough to sleep in the same room as him." Tinsley poured himself a small cup of the clear burning drink. "I say we toss him out into the snow, seeing as he's such a proponent of sacrifices. How would you like to be one, little man?"

Ricky held his gaze. "You wouldn't have the strength to sacrifice someone. It requires faith. It's not easy."

Tinsley laughed dryly. "Every day you prove yourself more stupid than I originally thought." He threw back the drink in one, and he didn't even wince. He dropped the small cup back onto the table. "Killing someone is the easiest thing there is. Perhaps one day I'll show you how easy."

"I think that's enough of that," said the Mayor sternly, settling into a chair in front of the same stove as Ricky. "No more talk of death and violence for tonight." He looked at Ricky, at his bare forearms. "How did you get those marks, lad?"

"They were given to me. People who dedicate their lives to the gods receive the markings."

Tinsley was watching him now, his face impassive. "Are they on your skin or in it."

"In it," replied Ricky, waiting for the barrage of harsh words to follow.

Tinsley didn't say anything. He came a few steps closer, studying the markings. "And you believe them to be a gift."

Ricky looked at him. "They are a gift. To show your faith on your skin is one of the acts that pleases the gods most." He raised his brows, matter-of-fact. "It's in the texts."

"The texts?" Tinsley's face went flat. "You mean the ones full of fairytales and-"

"They're not fairytales," replied Ricky fiercely. Tinsley seemed a bit surprised at his tone. "They're truth."

“I’ve only heard one tale about the gods," said the Mayor, attempting to steer the conversation away from choppy waters. "According to that tale, this whole land was underwater thousands of years ago, and the gods walked it as we walk it now. But then the sky grew greedy, and wanted some of the land for itself-”

“-even though it already had the clouds and the sun and the moon and the stars,” finished Ricky, his gaze distant, watching the fluttering flames in the stove, “and the birds and the wind and the rain. The sky had everything it needed yet still wanted more. So it took the land from the sea, because it was jealous and bitter, and the gods were left with nothing but the depths and the seafloor, and have yearned for the land since then.”

Tinsley raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how I heard the tale end. I was told that the sky took the land because it could treat it better than the sea, who choked the plants with salt and drowned the animals that tried to roam it. And in the versions I’ve heard, the sky is a god too.“

"Well to be accurate,” said Ricky stonily, “the sky is a demon.”

Tinsley’s face took on that slightly amused edge - it was a look that didn’t touch his mouth yet still made it clear he was smirking anyway. Looking at him closely Ricky noticed that he had a smattering of freckles across his face, skimming over the bridge of his strong nose, dusted across his cheeks, fading as they went further outward. They didn’t suit him, Ricky decided. Freckles weren’t for people like him. They were much too soft of a feature.

“And what makes your word more truthful than mine?” asked Tinsley, amused.

“Yours is a tale,“ said Ricky flatly. "Mine isn’t a tale. That’s the difference between our words and their legitimacy.”

Tinsley shook his head. “Absolute nutcase. You believe in the words you just spoke?”

“Wholeheartedly.”

“And who taught you to believe them? Your parents? Indoctrination at its finest.”

Ricky didn’t know what indoctrination meant, and so decided to ignore it. “I don’t have any parents.”

Tinsley’s face changed then, but only a little. It was an odd look, his eyes watching Ricky as if only seeing him properly for the first time. “No?”

“No.” Ricky didn’t elaborate. He didn’t imagine Tinsley would have much empathy for his origins. “Did your parents teach you _your_ tale?”

Tinsley was still looking at him strangely. “No.” A pause. “Why don’t you have any parents?”

Ricky jerked his chin up. “None of your business, I don’t think.”

Tinsley considered this for a moment before shrugging. He sat back down in his own chosen seat, crossing his legs in a figure four. "I guess not."

More people had filed into the tent. The air was growing hot with steam from wet cloaks. Ricky watched the miners greet each other and laugh with each other and share drink and food. He itched to be included, but he was aware that they were a wary people, wary of outsiders. So when the Mayor stood up to go over to where Manda was calling him, Ricky remained seated, and so did Tinsley. Tinsley was glowering into the stove, his fist pressed against his mouth, elbow on the arm of the chair. The gilding on his coat gleamed in the firelight. Ricky felt awfully plain beside him. He looked at the ring still on his finger, and he turned it around, over and over, watching the black stone glimmer. He glanced at Tinsley, who hadn't taken his eyes from the fire. He hadn't even blinked.

"Your home looked far away on the map," said Ricky, watching him. 

Tinsley didn't look at him. After a moment, he spoke. "That's because it is far away."

"Then what has you so far-"

"Stop talking."

Ricky shook his head, letting out a sharp breath through his teeth. "Right. So you're allowed ask me whatever you-"

"Your voice," interrupted Tinsley, taking his hand from his face to hold it, fingers spread, in the air, "is the most irritating sound I've ever experienced. So you can either sit there and stay quiet, or you can leave me alone and irritate some other unfortunate soul with your false niceties."

Ricky raised a dark eyebrow. "Believe it or not, but they're not false."

Tinsley finally looked at him, raising an eyebrow right back. He sat forwards, angled towards him, elbows resting on his knees and hands linked between them. "I don't know why you're on the mainland, but I know damn well that you're up to no good. So save it."

Ricky inclined his head. "I'm up to the only good there is."

"If you start on about your false gods again-"

"They're not false!" shouted Ricky, lurching to his feet.

The noise in the room dipped. Eyes turned towards him. Tinsley sat back slowly with a strangely satisfied smile on his face. Ricky swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest with a sudden anger he'd never experienced before - he'd never experienced _any_ anger before. Perhaps that was why he felt such a sudden surge of hatred towards Tinsley and his smiling face. Ricky sat back down with finality, rubbing at the back of his neck. The murmurs in the room gradually grew back to the level of chatter that had been present beforehand.

_Outside in the white snow, the water pulsed through the river like blood through a vein._


	8. Observed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“There are some eyes that can eat you.”_ \- Angela Carter

The city covered the horizon, stretching east and west, on and on until it faded into white nothing. On a clearer summer's day, the harbour and the sea far to the right would be visible, but for now it was covered by icy fog. The dam sat to their left, and the river separated them from the city - or it usually would have done, had it not been entirely frozen over. Tinsley was eyeing it warily from their vantage point atop the hill.

"Is it safe?"

The Mayor's reply was slow. "Ice is never safe."

Tinsley gave him a sidelong look. "I meant is it safe enough to walk on."

The Mayor took a moment to study the white river, as a scholar studies a particularly difficult calculation. "Maybe. But we won't need to. There's a bridge." It was his turn to give Tinsley a sidelong look. "But you're thinking like a commander again. Does your mind ever stop seeing a threat in every shadow?"

"I'm thinking about what might happen if these glasshands turn against you and decide to block off the bridge while you're in the city and slaughter you like hens in a coop," replied Tinsley without taking a breath. "That's what I'm thinking."

 _Of course you're thinking like that,_ thought the Mayor, _That's something you'd do._ "Well if it will make you less jumpy then yes, the ice is thick enough to walk on." He waved a large hand at the river. "The ice covers it entirely. There's no cracks or splits or signs of melting. More than that, the water doesn't move fast around here because of the dam, so underneath there's no pull. It should be fine for gradual crossing. And of course, no mammoths can cross. But that goes without saying."

Tinsley seemed relatively satisfied, but he was still studying the city with that strategic coldness in his eyes. "I can't see any military activity. Or any activity at all."

"See? A good sign."

"Or a terrible one."

"There's no Council presence this far north, Tinsley," said the Mayor, trying his best to sound comforting. "The glasshands will want to talk to me. My own brother will want to talk to me."

"There's Council presence everywhere-"

"We're a lot further away from Arcania than the Roost is, Tinsley. There'll be no catching us by surprise."

"-and I remember your brother," said Tinsley coolly. "And your damned niece. You're carved from a rotten tree, I'll tell you that. Don't know how you stayed so... humble."

"Quite easily, actually. It probably helped that I moved away from this city."

"And did you ever want to go back?" asked Tinsley, his gaze still fixed on the snow-capped buildings of Snow's End. "The Mines are a miserable place."

"Yes." The Mayor nodded, pulling distractedly at his beard. "There was many a time I wanted to come back."

"And now you're here. Let's see what sort of a welcome you'll get." Tinsley gave him a tight smile. "And they better have skins and tobacco."

"Yes," said the Mayor, loudly, making Tinsley pause in turning away. "Yes, I am here. This is my home."

Tinsley didn't respond. In fact, he was uncharacteristically quiet. The Mayor turned to face him, lips pressed in a line. Tinsley was avoiding his eyes, suddenly very interested in the snow around his boots. He kicked at it once or twice, like a child kicking at a stone while being scolded.

“You never told me why _you’re_ here,” said the Mayor quietly.

Tinsley shrugged. He kicked at the snow again. “Because I can’t go back.”

“Why do you feel that you can’t go back?”

“If I went back I’d be killed.”

“That’s never stopped you before.” The Mayor raised his brows, willing Tinsley to look at him. “What’s the real reason? Come on, you can tell me. It'll do you no good to keep it inside.”

Tinsley took a deep breath through his mouth, letting it out through his nose. It fogged in the air. “There’s nothing there for me anymore.”

“...Nothing?”

Tinsley shook his head. “Nothing. They burned my home. Everything I owned. They killed my people, the people who thought I could..." He trailed off, shaking his head again. "The only things I have left are the clothes on my body and Sky. They always say in the stories that if you do the right thing everything will be okay. But nothing turned out okay. I lost more than I could have imagined.”

“You did the right thing, Tinsley. It matters.”

“But how does it matter?” Tinsley finally looked at him, eyes large in that strikingly vulnerable manner that the Mayor - or anyone, for that matter - had rarely seen. “What does doing the right thing mean if you don’t succeed? It all meant nothing in the end. I have nothing to show for it but the- but the goddamn scars on my back.”

The Mayor took a sharp breath. “Is that true? Did they..?”

Tinsley shook his head again. He didn’t respond. When he thought about it he could still taste the wood between his teeth, he could feel it splintering. He could still smell the hot blood in the air. He could still feel the pain. "I'd rather not talk about it. Not now. What's done is done."

"Tinsley." The Mayor clamped a hand on his shoulder, giving him a small, friendly shake. He looked him in the eye. "I'm glad you're still here."

Tinsley didn't smile. He just nodded. "Thank you."

"Mm." The Mayor studied him in worried silence for a moment before nodding as well. "Now let's head back before the others begin to grow impatient."

* * *

"Are all rivers that cross the mainland saltwater?"

"Not if they come from the springs."

"What are springs?"

"Springs in the mountains in the Darkwoods. The streams that come out of them are freshwater." Manda continued peeling the damp bark off of the firewood with a small knife. "You'll find more settlements along those streams than anywhere else." She looked at him. "How did you get freshwater on your island?"

"Oh, I wasn't involved in that. But I think it was something to do with a pot and boiling water?" Ricky was laid out on the camp bed that he'd commandeered for himself, chewing on a strip of salted pork with obvious disdain. It took a lot of chewing. "Either way, we were never short. The gods gave us what we needed."

"The gods, hm?"

Ricky arched a dark eyebrow at her dry tone. "Are you really all so faithless?"

"The gods have never helped us much up here."

"The gods give you what you require, but you must make use of it." He closed his teeth on the pork, tearing off another mouthful, and he even managed to make this seem oddly sensual. "Maybe I'm what your people require. Maybe that's why I'm here."

"I think you have a challenger for the title of 'hero of the people'," she grinned. "There's another man who's here with the exact same reason in mind."

He didn't smile. "Tinsley is a blasphemer. Not a hero."

"I think you'll find that opinion varies depending on who you're talking to. And where you're talking to them."

"People's opinions mean nothing," he replied, swinging his legs around so that he was sitting upright. He gestured vaguely with the remainder of the strip of pork. "I know what's right."

Manda continued cutting away at the log, watching him get to his feet and swan over to the door of the tent, where he stood for a moment, silhouetted against the glare of the snow outside. She had once again found herself unable to form a response to his words. He was so strikingly certain of himself that she sometimes found herself listening to his preaching with rapt attention. But then again, it wasn't preaching. He simply spoke of the gods as if they were as real as the ground beneath their feet, and therefore there was no need to preach.

"Why are your people going to this city?" asked Ricky over his shoulder.

"To improve our livelihoods," she replied. "To change our little part of the world for the better."

"That sounds like a respectable reason."

"Why are you here? If you don't mind me asking."

"I'm not sure yet," he said, squinting at the river.

He turned on his heel, finding his greatcoat and shrugging it on, adjusting the collar so that it stood up, better to keep the icy bite of the wind out. He looked at Manda, who looked back quizzically.

"Come with me."

Manda shrugged and got up to follow. Whatever he was doing, it was more interesting than chopping damp wood off firelogs.

She followed him out into the encampment. He walked with a sudden purpose, his coat brushing the snowy ground as he went, making a light swishing sound with each step he took. He was heading towards the black river. When he reached it - with sliding steps down the bank - he crouched down beside the half-frozen water and drew off his glove. Manda's eyes widened in alarm when she realized what he was doing.

"No! No, you'll get-"

But he had already dipped his hand into the slush, submerging it to the wrist with hardly a wince. She stared in mute shock. After a few minutes Ricky withdrew his hand; his skin had hardly even reddened. When Manda looked at his face, she expected to see some sign of the burning pain that came with such a fierce cold as the water currently was. All she saw was a vaguely troubled look in his eyes; they were narrowed slightly, watching the river lap against the sludgy bank.

"There's something in the water that isn't supposed to be there," he murmured, straightening back up.

Manda didn't quite know how to respond to this. She was still baffled at his lack of response to the ice water on his skin. "What in the world are you taking about?"

He looked at her. He had such unnerving eyes, she thought. Impossibly dark. They looked right into her, to such an extent that she found it difficult to continue looking back.

"I don't know how else to explain it," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "There's something in the water that doesn't belong there."

"...There's a dam outside the city? Perhaps that's it?"

He pondered this, then shook his head. "No. Something different. Something malicious. Or something with- with malicious intent."

Manda wished she could cast his strange words aside and simply consider him a little out of it. But there was something about him that made her wary, not only of him but of his words. It wasn't just the fact that he looked entirely different to anything she'd ever seen, with his dark blue markings and seafaring clothes; it was the fact that apart from his appearance, he seemed to be entirely sane. His gaze was steady and he displayed no nervous ticks. He smiled when he should and frowned when he should. His mind never wandered away mid-conversation. He spoke firmly and wisely, no matter the words being spoken. Even now he looked up at her and smiled reassuringly.

"It might just be something small. Perhaps there's a species of fish here that shouldn't be here. That can unnerve the creatures, which in turn unnerves the water. It's all-" He waved his hands around. "-connected."

Manda simply nodded. "Mm. Okay." Her gaze flickered to something behind him. "Ah, they're back." She raised her voice. "Well? What did you see?"

"Nothing that we've never seen before," said the Mayor, his black cloak sweeping the snow behind him. He was calm. Tinsley didn't seem quite as calm. "What have you two been up to? Why do you have your glove off, lad? You'll lose your hand before you know it."

"Bare skin is essential," replied Ricky, as if that explained everything.

No one knew how to respond to this. It was an effect Ricky had on them quite often. The Mayor seemed vaguely amused, brows raised and a small smile on his face, as if a toddler had just walked up to him and told them their latest adventure with their imaginary friend. Tinsley was not so fond.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to be spending time alone with him,” said Tinsley, turning his cold eyes to Manda. “His people used to run amok on this land. I’m sure they still have some tricks up their filthy sleeves to convince people tales are truth.”

Ricky resisted the urge to bite back. Instead he smiled, disarmingly sweet. “There’s no tricks, rider. It’s simply called being nice. I completely understand if you’re unfamiliar.”

The beginnings of a smile touched Tinsley's face. Or the beginnings of a snarl. It was probably the latter. "You won't be able to convince anyone of anything once I take your impudent tongue out of your mouth."

Ricky continued smiling, although an unsettlingly salacious edge crept into it. "You'd be surprised."

Manda cleared her throat, giving the Mayor a long look. "I have to talk to you. About something. Just... quietly."

He nodded yes, and they began meandering along the riverbank, side-by-side, their furs and cloaks so thick they seemed to blend into one body with two whispering heads, one white and one red. Ricky watched them go. He didn't look away at the sound of Tinsley's voice.

"Do you know what the trick is to taking someone's tongue out of their mouth without the mess?" asked Tinsley, brows raised innocently. "It's using a hot knife."

Ricky gave him a long, steady look. Tinsley held it without breaking a sweat.

"It sears the wound closed as you cut," said Tinsley, as if they were simply discussing the weather. "Because the point isn't to kill the person. I mean, what's the point in taking out someone's tongue if they're just going to die?" An unnecessarily long pause. "Where I'm from, they teach you how to make a man suffer."

Ricky searched his face, brows drawing together, curious. "Is that what happened to you?"

Tinsley arched an eyebrow. "What?"

"Did someone cause you to suffer and then not finish it off? Is living with the memory of that suffering too much for you?" Ricky brought his thumb to his mouth and bit lightly on his nail, looking Tinsley over, as if pondering the answer. Then he smiled with all his teeth. "I'd say it is. You're just like a frightened dog, snapping at anyone who comes too close. And beat dogs holler the loudest, after all."

Tinsley stared at him, unblinking, in silence. "What did you just say?"

"And you're incredibly weak, you know. I can see it in your eyes. Once you learn to read a man's eyes, things like that become very easy to see." He smiled, that same sweet smile as before, head tilted aside slightly. "Yes. You wish you'd died when you were supposed to. And you _were_ supposed to, weren't you? More than once."

Tinsley went stiff, his eyes wide, pupils black pinpricks within his icy irises. His breath had caught painfully in his throat. "You- You-"

"Do you wish I'd done it?" asked Ricky with feigned concern, reaching out and lightly touching Tinsley's sleeve. "Do you look at me and see a missed opportunity? Is that why you hate me so deeply?"

Tinsley was entirely taken aback. His mouth was open without a sound coming out, his eyes were wide but unseeing. The corner of Ricky's mouth curled cruelly, looking at Tinsley's stunned face from below his dark lashes.

"You look at me and see death," said Ricky in a velvety quiet voice. His fingertips still lingered on Tinsley's sleeve, feeling the thick fabric of it. "And you both hate me and want me. But don't be afraid, Tinsley. My gods are much more than death. They're life as well." He let his hand slip around Tinsley's forearm, watching the man's face as he did so. "I could give you a lease of life you've never experienced before. But only if you give yourself to me." His gaze moved from Tinsley's lips, downwards. _"All_ of yourself."

Tinsley seemed to come back to earth. His gaze sharpened on Ricky's face, flickering around it, blinking rapidly. He looked down at Ricky's gloved hand on his arm. Then he looked back at Ricky's face. "...You insolent _whore."_ He whipped his arm away from Ricky's grip, and it flashed up to grab a fistful of Ricky's hair with enough ferocity to have the man stumble, his dark eyes widening in alarm. Tinsley dragged him towards the river, face red with anger, his breaths panted; they felt hot as they tore in and out of his throat. "You- You vicious little slut, you-" He ignored Ricky trying to pull away, ignored his protests. He simply tightened his grip on Ricky's hair, hauling him through the snow. "I'll show you death, you little cunt. You'll swallow your disgusting words, as well as enough water to make you terrified to ever even _think_ of the stuff again, do you hear me?"

Ricky slipped on the snowy bank, dropping to one knee, one hand sinking into the snow and the other gripping Tinsley's where it was still tangled in his hair. His words were shaky, breathless. "I won't cry for help. I won't. I'm here for a-"

"That's your own fucking choice," snarled Tinsley, wrenching Ricky's head back so that their eyes were locked, his narrowed and Ricky's wide. "Let's see your gods save you now."

Ricky didn't get a chance to respond. Tinsley dragged him the last step before plunging his head underneath the slushy surface of the river, holding it there, shoving it down against the sludgy bed. Ricky closed his eyes, the sound of the water thick and echoed, a strange creaking sound joining them. He could still feel the tight grip on his hair, Tinsley's other hand on the back of his neck, fingers digging into his skin. He felt Tinsey's knee land between his shoulder blades, pinning him down, forcing out some bubbles of breath from his lungs. It couldn't end like this. The gods didn't take him off the island just to have him killed on the mainland by a blasphemer. Some more bubbles of air escaped his nose. His instincts screamed at him to fight back, to shove against Tinsley, to kick out and scratch and make as much of a commotion as he could. But he wouldn't listen to them. He served the gods first, and his instincts second.

He let out the rest of his breath, wondering exactly what the gods had intended for him. Had he ruined it all himself? Was he supposed to have killed Tinsley, and now instead was being killed by him? Had he proven himself to be too weak for the gods? Not ruthless enough? Not dedicated enough? His lungs were beginning to burn. He sank his gloved hands into the riverbed, fighting the urge to push back. _Please._ He squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth. _Please. I can do better._

And all of a sudden Tinsley's hands were gone. Ricky reared back out of the water with a shuddered gasp, flailing blindly for a moment, scrambling away from Tinsley, whose attention was now elsewhere by the look of things. He stood with his arms by his sides and shoulders stiff, the knees of his trousers still wet from the snow, his brows drawn together into a confused frown as he stared at the river. His voice was baffled.

"I saw- There was a-" He went quiet, still unblinking, still staring at the river, the water rushing past. Then he abruptly turned and left.

Ricky gladly watched him go. Water dripped from the ends of his dark hair, from the end of his nose, from his chin. It was beginning to freeze. He gave his head a quick shake and ran his fingers through his hair, squeezing what water he could out of it. He glanced at the river, wondering exactly what Tinsley had seen, what had rattled him to such an extent, if only to learn from it. He eventually got to his feet and began the trudge back to the Mayor's tent. With each day that passed, Tinsley was only showing himself to be more and more of a nuisance, a bump in the road. Ricky wished he still had the knife he'd brought from the island, but he must have left it in Snow's End, in that lush prison he had been trapped within. He'd never used it offensively, but when he looked at Tinsley he could imagine driving the blade into him - into his neck, or his chest, or his stomach. Wherever his pulse was strongest. If he even had a pulse at all. Ricky wouldn't be surprised if there was nothing but ice in his veins.

The Mayor did a double-take when Ricky returned to the tent. "What in the world happened to you? There's ice in your hair!"

Ricky looked at him. He looked at Tinsley for a long time, where he stood by the stove, arms folded and face implacable. He looked back at the Mayor and smiled. "I slipped and fell by the river. It was tragic."

"Well you'd best get warmed up right quick. Come on inside."

"Don't worry," said Ricky, still with that infuriating calm. "I'm not rattled so easily."

* * *

The city was always silent. It had to be. Guests had to be greeted at the gates, and in order to hear them coming there needed to be complete silence, day and night. Most guests were there for the usual reason; to either bury their dead or to pay respect to their dead. But there was the occasional Council delegation, as uninvited as they ever were. It was a warning. Fear knew it was. The Council might as well have hung a sign just outside the gate saying "don't forget, we are just down the road". Only a day's ride, or less. So Gravehearth remained silent at all times, and the Eyes watched the fog fields and listen for the distant clip of uninvited hooves. It was an unspoken rule: the Council was not allowed inside the city unless the city was prepared, and what needed to be hidden was hidden. The Council made a mistake in this way; it equated silence with obedience.

Luckily, neither the Council members nor their guards were too eager to set foot past the Howling Gate. It was the only one in and out of the city - Fear had seen to that - and it had been allowed to become decrepit over time, and it had, with flaking iron and creeping ivy. Unfortunately, they didn't howl quite as much as Fear would have liked. They only howled when the wind was up, and he had yet to master the wind.

He crossed the main square towards Coldfire Hall. The cool grey sunlight filtered through the monolithic pillars that held up the arched entrance. To the left of this entrance was a small space where the first forbidden statue used to sit. They had had to pretend to destroy it, under Council orders, after the accursed Discovery from those accursed scholars who thought themselves more divine than anyone else around them. He had never been fond of Arcania: scholars were strange people. But when Fran had begged him to let her go, he'd eventually conceded.

Not that he didn't want her to leave Gravehearth. It was a dismal place, there was no denying that. It was a place for the old, the dying, and the dead. He glimpsed himself in a puddle as he took the few steps up to the doors to the Hall. The old, the dying, the dead, and those few who pledged their lives to the afterlife. He was one of those few.

There wasn't much inside Coldfire Hall. It was a run-down and broken place; walls crumbled, leaving piles of ivy-covered rubble on the ground, and the stained-glass windows were smashed through. They cast jagged colours on the stone floor. This room must have been beautiful once, thought Fear. It had been the entrance hall to a castle, the rooms of which were next to inaccessible. But that was okay, as he didn't need to access them; he needed access to what was underneath them.

His footsteps echoed as he ascended the steps towards the back of the Hall, to the flat space against the wall, on which a high table must have sat, or perhaps another statue or two. He often found himself wondering what the whole must have looked like in its prime. Maybe one day it would be restored. But until then he had some work to do.

There was a small stone-arch doorway to the left at the back of the Hall, hidden behind one of the stone pillars that held of what remained of the crumbling roof. Some held up nothing at all. But they still stood. That was what mattered.

Fear passed under the stone archway and into the dank and dreary hallway behind. It wasn't any damper than the rest of the city; there was an eternal dampness that drifted in from the fog fields. Those fields were a blessing and the curse, he thought.

He made his way down the hallway in the pitch black. He didn't need a source of light anymore; he knew each uneven stone and each crack in the wall before he touched them. Cobwebs occasionally brushed his face and dusted his hair, but he was used to it, and he was surprised that the spiders haven't yet given up and moved on. They were stubborn, he supposed. Other people's stubbornness was the bane of his life.

He knew he had reached the end of the corridor when his hand passed over the alcove in the wall, in which had sat another statue, but a smaller variation this time. This one had been much easier to manoeuvre into the cellars. The big ones had left no choice but to gather as many people as possible and drag them deeper into the city, as close to the shore as possible, where the mist grew thickest. They had had to let the lighthouse burn out after this, so that passing ships didn't spot the disembodied faces and hands of the rulers of long ago. Fear let himself feel a little sad at the fact that the memories of these rulers had efficiently been filtered out of history by the Council. But they were remembered here, through word of mouth.

He took the dark steps down into the dungeons. They had been converted into a meeting place, a place where they could talk and be certain no one above could hear them. Rage turned to him once he slipped under the arch and into the vaulted space they had set their tables and chairs in.

"You're late."

"Apologies. I was caught up with something of utmost importance."

Grief waited until he had sat down before speaking. "Was it to do with the..?"

"Yes. And it was lucky I decided to check in on him."

Denial inclined his head, curious. "Still having trouble?"

"It's me who's having trouble," muttered Fear, watching as Sorrow lit the tall wax candles in the middle of the round table with the single one that had been burning alone. The light shone off the surface of the bowl of water that sat in the centre of the candles. "There's a possible distraction."

"In what way?"

Fear looked at Denial's pale thin face across the table. "The Silverbird is in the north. And he's not getting along with the Child."

"Oh, that is bad news," said Sorrow, resting their chin in their hand, fingers brushing the smooth golden metal of the mask they wore. "To what extent should we be concerned?"

"I have it under control for now," said Fear, readjusting his gold-rimmed glass on his nose. "It's just a shame that they've found each other again."

"The Silverbird has an uncanny tendency of subverting his fate," said Rage, turning the deep red ring on the index finger of her left hand. When she turned, the golden spine along her back slid in an unsettlingly realistic manner. "He's trouble."

"He could be useful," said Fear, smoothing down his cloak under the table. He could feel the bumps of the gilded ribcage he wore over his shirt. "The Child enjoys taking his time with things. He could do with a bit of a shove, I think."

"Not a literal one," said Grief with a raised eyebrow, pulling at her thick dark plait where it fell over her shoulder. Strands of grey had begun to thread through it. The clasp at the bottom of the plait mimicked interlocked skeletal fingers. "They'll need to be watched closely, I believe."

"As I said, I have it under control for now," said Fear, giving her a sidelong look. "But if I require assistance, I'll of course let you all know, and we can decide from there our plan of action. But for now-" He extended his hands either side; the golden bones on his gloves gleamed in the soft candlelight. "-let us pray."

They each joined hands with those either side of them, and closed their eyes in near unison. They prayed in silence.

* * *

The Mayor was readying himself to go to the city gates, retying his boots and pulling on his gloves and tucking a dagger into his belt, hidden beneath his cloak. He had chosen a few companions, Manda among them. Tinsley, however, was not among them.

"Why can't I come?" asked Tinsley quietly, so that the others couldn't hear.

"I don't know what they've heard about what happened on your island," said the Mayor, just as quietly. He knew Tinsley didn't want people hearing their conversation. Tinsley's pride was a fragile thing lately. "I don't want them getting the wrong idea about why I'm here. If I turn up with you - with the Silverbird - they'll immediately thing I'm here to-"

"To cause meaningless violence?" said Tinsley bitterly.

"-to overthrow them," finished the Mayor sternly. "To wage war with them. And that's not why I'm here."

Tinsley swallowed hard. "And you think that's all I'm good for."

"I know that's what you're good _at._ And it doesn't matter what I think. It matters what the glasshands think."

Tinsley knew he was right, and it was infuriating. "So what do I do? Stay here with the delirious little man who thinks the sea is a god? Am I equal to him, is that it?"

"You're neither worth more than the other," said the Mayor, clapping his gloved hands together to warm them up. "You know that's my view on that."

Tinsley made a sharp _tsk_ sound between his teeth, turning his head aside. He rubbed at his pointy nose in clear aggravation. The Mayor took a deep breath, letting it out as quietly as possible.

"What about Sky?"

"She's off feeding," said Tinsley.

"Call her."

"I don't want to. She gets irritated if I whistle for her for no reason. She thinks it's an emergency." He shook his head. "It's fine. You go on." He cleared his throat. "And good luck. I hope it goes well."

The Mayor tried a smile. "Thank you."

"But if you're not back before dark, I'm coming to get you."

The Mayor heard the determination in his voice, saw it on his face. He nodded. "Okay."

Tinsley watched them go from the edge of the encampment. It was a small group, just four or five. It wasn't enough. Tinsley knew he was probably being paranoid, but he couldn't help it. He watched the group go until they were just dots further down the hill. Then he turned back to the encampment, and took a moment to appreciate the size of it, the amount of land it covered. Fires stretched into the distance, smoke rising in dark plumes against the paler sky. If one thing might encourage the glasshands to allow the Mayor to come back, it was the amount of people awaiting his return.

Tinsley made his way back to the Mayor's tent, which would hopefully be empty. He wanted to wash his face, his hair, in water warmed by the stove. But somebody had beaten him to it.

Ricky was sitting on the edge of his camping bed, a bucket of steaming water on the ground between his legs. His dark hair was half-dried, a mess of damp curls, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows to keep them dry. Both hands were submerged in the water, wetting a cloth. He glanced up as Tinsley entered and gave him a wary once-over before taking the cloth from the bucket and wringing it hard. The sound of droplets hitting the water was strikingly loud above the crackling of fire in the stove. Ricky used the cloth to clean his face, but he didn't allow it to cover his eyes. Not while Tinsley was advancing towards him.

Ricky scratched at the stubble that was beginning to grow itchy along his jaw. He wanted to shave it off, but shaving didn't seem to be important around here. There wasn't a razor to be found. "I thought you'd be gone with the others."

Tinsley stopped by the small table beside the stove, uncorking the glass bottle of akevitt. He poured himself a cup. "Sorry to disappoint."

Another wringing of the cloth, more trickling of water into the bucket. "You're not sorry about what you did earlier though, are you?"

"No. You were in need of a scare."

Ricky sat with his elbows on his knees, cloth between his hands. "I wasn't scared. I had faith."

Tinsley ignored this. He threw back the cup of akevitt, feeling it burning down his throat and into his belly. Then he poured another. Ricky watched in silence.

"What did you see in the water?"

Tinsley paused for a split second, but a split second was all it took the make his following words transparent. "I didn't see anything."

"Did you see a man with black skin and white hair? With golden spectacles?"

Tinsley stared at him, unblinking. He recovered promptly. "No. I didn't see anything. Didn't you hear me the first time, little man?"

Ricky gave him a flat look, but he didn't respond otherwise. He ducked his head and swished his fingers in the warm water for a few minutes. "Why aren't you with the Mayor and Manda."

Tinsley sat down on a chair near the stove. "None of your business."

"I would've thought he'd want to bring you," said Ricky, watching him from behind his hair, head still ducked. "As a person brings a dog on a nighttime walk."

Tinsley ignored the insult. "The Mayor has more faith in the glasshands than he should."

"And why's that?"

"Because you can't trust strangers," said Tinsley with a pointed look in his direction.

"Was it strangers who hurt you?" Ricky raised an eyebrow. "I suppose it would be worse if it wasn't."

Tinsley got to his feet, glaring at him. His gloved hands flexed by his sides. "It was strangers." He took a quick breath, letting it out sharply through his nose. "You ask too many questions."

"I can't help it. I'm a curious man. I _have_ many questions."

"You were born and raised on your island, weren't you?"

Ricky shrugged. "I'm not too sure where I was born, to be honest."

Tinsley raised an eyebrow. "I'd ask what you mean, but I don't quite care."

Ricky gave him a dry look. Tinsley continued.

"It's clear you've never left your home. You're very innocent in some regards. Very suspicious in others. You should decide which way you'd rather be perceived."

"I thought you'd decided that for me." Ricky also stood up, stretching languorously, arms above his head. His shirtsleeves slipped down his arms, revealing more markings along on his skin that Tinsley hadn't noticed before. Ricky arched an eyebrow at his staring, letting his arms drop back to his sides. "What?"

Tinsley nodded towards him, vague. "Are your markings all over you?"

Ricky smiled mischievously, teeth nipping at his bottom lip. "Curious, are you? You only have to ask and I'll show you."

Tinsley pressed his lips together in a firm line, a small crease appearing between his brows. "A simple yes or no will suffice."

"Well then no, they're not all over me."

Tinsley waited for him to go on. He waited in vain. The corners of Ricky's mouth were threatening a smile, waiting for Tinsley to ask the next question - _well where are they?_ \- to which he no doubt had another horribly witty reply just ready to slip off his poisonous tongue. Tinsley took a slow breath.

"Fine. That's all I asked."

Ricky's smile revealed itself a little, a glimmer of teeth visible. "Fine. There's your answer."

Tinsley inclined his head a little, neck stiff. "Then thank you."

"You're welcome."

Tinsley's eyes flickered around the tent, unable to settle, until he looked back at Ricky, who was watching him with a vaguely amused look on his face. Tinsley jerked his chin up and said: "Well I think they're ugly."

And with that he turned on his heel and strode out of the tent.


	9. Little Man

It was nearly dark. The Mayor hadn't returned from the city. Tinsley stood watching the sky for the first glimmer of a star. Once he saw it, he could go. He could get Sky and enter the city and find out what had gone wrong. He knew the Mayor had been too trustworthy. Snow's End was just like all the other cities; packed to the brim with liars and thieves. He watched that city now, the fires in all the windows, the smoke coming from the chimneys, not a hint of shame about the miners camped outside in the cold. The ice on the river glowed pale in the dark, abruptly ending at the black dam wall. He couldn't see the water that the dam was holding back from here. It was much too high, a colossal structure, as imposing as all the machinery in the north was. They didn't do things in halves up here. It was either small or ginormous, too cold or too warm, poverty or luxury.

He spotted a familiar black dot down in the white snow of the riverbank, a reverse image of the black sky above, and the white stars waiting to come out. Tinsley had no idea how Ricky spent such long periods of time in the snow. There was definitely something wrong with the guy, but this wasn't new knowledge. The vast majority of the miners found him unsettling, strange, saying he talked to the water, and that sometimes it spoke back to him in unfamiliar tongues. Tinsley took this with a grain of salt; the miners were odd people too, quiet and reserved, prone to rumours of the occult kind. They looked at Ricky and probably saw some mysterious being with an intriguing story and a gaze deep enough to rival the ocean itself. Tinsley looked at Ricky and saw a cheeky little brat who could be put in his place easily enough. Tinsley had encountered his sort before, even back at home; people with ideas up in the air, heads in the clouds, distracting and endangering everyone. All it took was a firm hand to get them back in line. Tinsley started down towards the black dot in the snow. 

"This is where you go to hide from hard work, is it?" he asked once he was within earshot.

Ricky didn't look at him. He remained sitting, his knees tucked in against his chest, arms around them and his chin resting on them. "I haven't seen the sea in over a week."

"The river is saltwater. From the sea. I'd hope you'd have noticed that, since your entire face was in it not too long ago."

An unimpressed silence. "It's not the same."

"How so?"

"Because the sea is the sea and a river is a river," snapped Ricky, throwing a fierce glare over his shoulder. His heavy black brows made all his glares seem dark and dangerous. "If they were one and the same, they wouldn't have different names. Is the sky the same as the air around your head?"

Tinsley was a little taken aback at the spiteful words, but not for too long. "And what has you in such a mood."

"The same thing I'm beginning to think has you in a mood all the time too." Ricky scowled at the river. "Loneliness."

Tinsley's brows drew together. "I'm not lonely."

"Yes you are. There's no one else here like you. Just as there's no one else here like me."

"Don't be so naive. People know who I am. People know where I come from. No one knows anything about you."

A moody silence settled between them. Even the rushing water of the river seemed to exist outside their bubble. Ricky eventually pushed himself to his feet, turning to face Tinsley as he brushed the snow off his gloved hands.

"You must be even lonelier than me," he said coolly, "seeing as you can't even admit to it."

Tinsley's blue eyes burned coldly. "There's nothing for me to admit to."

Ricky looked him over, studiously, before smiling a small, knowing smile. There was an edge of pity to it. "If you insist."

"You should go home," said Tinsley. He was almost begging for Ricky to leave by now. He hated how the little man always managed to sink his claws right into the tenderest parts of his soul. "There'll be no one to comfort you and your loneliness here. Especially if you decide to travel south." He lowered his voice. "They don't take kindly to godly people down there."

"Mm. You're from the south, aren't you?"

"The Roost isn't part of the south," came the fiercely indignant reply. "It's not part of the mainland. It's always been its own country and always will be."

Ricky raised a dark eyebrow. "Sensitive subject?"

"Yes, actually. It is. So refrain from enforcing your stupidity upon it." His eyes drifted upwards, and he went still. "You can wallow here all you want. I have somewhere to be."

Ricky glanced up at the single glimmering star in the sky, the one Tinsley had just looked at too. Darkness had fallen, and the Mayor still wasn't back. He took off after Tinsley, back up the riverbank.

"You're going after the Mayor, aren't you?" he called, slightly breathless. "I knew you would. I want to come with."

"Don't be ridiculous. Leave me alone."

They crested the small hill. Snow's End was glittering with hundreds of fires in windows, hundreds of braziers in the streets. The dam and the water next to it was strikingly black against the lights from the city. Tinsley's mouth was watering with the need to get behind those walls. He whistled sharply, and Ricky remembered the last time he had heard that whistle. The griffin would be on its way over already. Tinsley was going to be gone within minutes. Ricky glanced from him to Snow's End and back again.

"I'm coming with."

"Piss off before I lose my patience."

"I can help. I can. I owe the-"

"If you can manage to find your way into the city, then by all means you can get yourself killed by the guards," came the flippant response. "Believe me, I won't try to stop you."

Ricky blinked. "You have a griffin. I could-"

Tinsley's head whipped around to stare at him so sharply that Ricky's words were sliced off mid-sentence. "Don't be preposterous. Griffins aren't horses, you disrespectful little- You can't just hop on and off them like a- like a cart, like a wagon. The day I let you even _breathe_ near Sky is the day I'm lying dead in the dirt. And more than that, she'd be likely to take your head off before even I get the chance to. Griffins are intelligent. She most likely remembers your face from when you tried to murder me in cold blood."

Ricky's face was red by the time he'd finished. "I didn't know. There's no need to be such a prick about it."

Tinsley was still glaring at him, his pointed nose wrinkled slightly with disdain. "Just go back to the tent and stay quiet. I'll be back when I'm back."

"I'm still coming. I'll- I'll go by the river."

"Oh for the love of-"

"You can't make me stay."

"I can," snarled Tinsley, taking a threatening step towards him. "And I will, if you don't stop following me around like a mangy stray dog."

"I'm not mangy."

"But you are stray," said Tinsley, his words as cold as his eyes.

Ricky glared at him. "Just as much as you are."

"No. There's a difference between being independent and being stray."

Ricky cocked his head. “You like playing with words, don’t you. You-”

Tinsley suddenly stepped forwards, jabbing a finger into Ricky’s face, his voice hushed and angry. _“Don’t_ do what you did earlier. Picking me apart with that little smirk on your face. Don’t fucking do it.” He whipped his hand away and put space between them again. “You’re staying here. That’s final.”

“You can’t make me stay. _That’s_ final.”

Tinsley’s gaze flickered to something above Ricky’s head, and his eyes narrowed slightly with pleasure. “Maybe _I_ won’t have to make you stay.”

Ricky turned his head, and the beast was bare metres away, its feathers puffed on its chest and shoulders. Its yellow eyes were unblinking, watching him. It clacked its beak, once. Ricky moved backwards as it came closer, its scaly black feet sinking into the snow, its shining talons slicing through it to the frozen ground below. Its back paws were thick and furred, patterned like a snow leopard's, with an impressively fluffy tail to match. Yet still a tad too large to be endearing. Ricky swallowed hard, and he let out a surprised gasp when he felt a gloved hand fit around the back of his neck, holding him where he was.

“Now there’s two ways we can go about this, little man,” said Tinsley, quiet and casual. His fingers and thumb dug into the sides of Ricky’s neck, feeling his pulse pounding. Sky's tail flicked from one side to the other. “You can stay here and I’ll hop on Sky and go fix whatever’s gone wrong, or you can kick up a fuss and I give you a little shove and Sky takes your head off. She doesn't have teeth, but it's the power in her jaw. Just snips off limbs like a scissors, really." A smile. "The choice is yours.”

Ricky went to reply, but only a small squeak came out as Tinsley gave him a sharp shake, an almost-shove, before pulling him back. He could hear Tinsley’s satisfied laugh, an exhale of air through his nose. He could feel it hot against the side of his face. He closed his eyes.

"Fine."

"Fantastic." Tinsley released him, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder before crossing the snow towards Sky. "And feel free to run away and take yourself home while I'm gone. I promise I won't come after you."

Ricky watched in silence as Tinsley swung himself up into the saddle on the griffin's back and slipped his boots into the stirrups. Tinsley pulled the dark neck of his underjumper up over his nose before fixing his goggles around his eyes. Then he gave Ricky an overly enthusiastic thumbs-up, which made it quite evident that he didn't mean it with even a hint of sincerity. Ricky muttered a curse at him before backing away. Sky bounded forwards, spraying snow, flapping her wings once, twice, three times, and then she was off into the air, climbing higher and higher. The clouds were so white she quickly blended against them. Ricky let out a heavy breath, watching it fog the air.

Tinsley swiftly forgot about Ricky, focused instead on the task at hand. He had to get into the city, close enough to the Mayor's old house, but not so close that he landed in a well-lit area. And more than that, he had to get off Sky mid-flight. There was skill involved in such a maneuver. The rider and the griffin needed to be entirely, perfectly balanced, and relied on each other to achieve this balance; the griffin needed to glide, silent and smooth, to provide the rider with a still surface to position themselves on. A wrong step from the rider meant the griffin could tilt, or need to flap its wings to remain on the correct trajectory. A mistake like this could lead to the timing being ruined, and timing was of the essence. So Tinsley was careful, and so was Sky. Their descent was as soft and silent as the drifting snow around them. Only for a second was Tinsley distracted, and it was due to the sight down by the river where it left the city. Part of the wall had seemingly crumbled, the grate lying twisted and warped on the riverbank, as if moulded by giant hands. It was strange. He had to admit that. He pushed thoughts of Ricky out of his head.

Tinsley slipped off Sky once he was over a small square, the Mayor's old house visible up the hill. He took the landing on his shoulder, rolling forwards once to come to a gentle stop against the building opposite, where he remained crouched until he got his bearings. He pushed his goggles up into his hair, pulling the neck of his jumper back down to his neck. A brazier was set in the middle of the square, wet cobblestone in a neat circle around it. The guards must come by this way. He swiftly moved on.

He didn't draw a weapon. Blood congealed in snow, and was very much obvious against the clean whiteness of it. He'd have to use his hands, if it came down to it.

Crunching footsteps from around the corner, murmuring voices. Tinsley tucked himself into a doorway, pressing back against the wood, smoothing his coat down against his front. He stayed still. The two guards passed. Their spearheads gleamed in the firelight from the sconces in the walls. Tinsley waited until their footsteps had receded before moving on.

The next few streets passed in silence, but for one civilian, a maid by the looks of things. Her eyes took in his attire; his coat and his weapons, most of all. She didn't ask what a rider was doing so far north. She just let him pass, lowering her head and unlocking her door before bundling her groceries inside. She shut the door behind her. Tinsley heard it being locked as he passed by.

The shadowy streets only lasted for another little while. The richer the houses got, the nicer the streets got, and the more guards were present. He knew it was inevitable that he’d run into one or two that night. However, around the next corner he ran into three standing around a brazier, sharing steaming mulled wine. They stared at him in shock. Then one dropped their cup of wine and drew their sword, and the other two did the same. Tinsley allowed them to come towards him. His blood was already singing.

He fought well, mentally scoring himself, but it was far from effortless. It was reacting in the moment, eyes flickering from threat to threat. It was allowing his limbs to move the way they demanded to be moved, and having the flexibility and range of motion to allow them to do so. It was about the fluidity of his movements, allowing his opponents to trip themselves up with their clumsiness as they attempted to keep pace. Tinsley twisted his shoulder back to avoid a swiping sword, dropped to one knee to avoid another, turned on this knee and hooked his other leg around one of the guard's legs to knock them flat on their back with a dull _thump_ and exhale of breath.

There was no time to revel in a small victory, a move well executed. He drew his rapier as he rolled back and away from the centre of the fight. He eyed the swords that the guards wielded; they were broad, made of a more durable metal than his own. He wouldn't be able to directly fight back, he'd have to rely on parrying, deflecting. He drew the dirk from its scabbard at the small of his back, hidden under his coat. He flipped it so that the blade extended from the bottom of his fist. Then he attacked before they could. Metal scraped off metal as he parried the two swords at once, his senses on edge, his instincts working together so quickly he felt as if he was nothing but a puppet for them. He no longer had to think about his actions. His body was at home in a fight.

He used the windowsill beside them as leverage, pushing himself off it and into the air, catching one of the guards with a knee to the chin as he did so. He landed lightly, not disrupting his momentum as he skidded under the slash of the other guard’s sword, coming to a halt against the opposite wall. He took a single breath, heard the whistle of sharp metal through air. He ducked, and the sword cast sparks as it hit off the stone where his head had been. Tinsley kicked upwards. one hand on the ground for balance. The heel of his boot struck something solid. He heard the slump of a body to the ground seconds later.

Two unconscious, one stunned. It was as clean as he could have hoped for. He stood for a moment, breathing heavily, feeling his body complaining slightly. He hadn’t stretched that morning, and he was regretting it now. But he didn’t have time to feel sorry for himself. He had to hurry now. The guards would be found soon. He sheathed his weapons as he continued into the streets, towards the Mayor’s old house.

It was a mansion, a castle, built into the side of the hill along with all the others, a twisted beehive of wealth. The guards were more plentiful around here. There were more riches to protect, more rich folk. Tinsley chose a sturdy pipe and swiftly scaled it, catching hold of the edge of the roof above him. His arms burned as he hauled himself up onto it. For a moment he lay in the fresh snow, panting for breath, staring at the night sky. He was more out of shape than he thought he was. He’d have to take care of that when all of this was done.

He made his way across the roofs towards the second floor window of the mansion, treading carefully in the slippery snow. The guards all seemed to be on edge, concerned, which had Tinsley concerned as a result. He tried to listen in on the conversation of two below the roof he was on, but he couldn’t get close enough without risking spilling snow down onto them and alerting the whole place to his presence. He heard the word ‘boat’, or maybe it was ‘bait’. He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was both. There was no point in dwelling on it. He hurried on.

* * *

Ricky sat in a huff, watching the city. There was no way he was going to simply sit in a tent, waiting patiently until someone ame to get him. He was on this land for adventure, for danger, to find an answer as to why he was even here at all. And there _was_ an answer. He knew there was. He could feel it inside himself; he was here to serve a purpose. The gods had a plan for him. He had been singled out in order to achieve whatever it was they needed him to achieve, and he'd be damned if he let an arrogant, godless stranger attempt to sit him in a corner, away from all the excitement.

"Has he come back yet?" asked a miner. They had gathered into a black wall of furs and cloaks, making it seem as if the encampment had been flooded by tar. "Have any of them come back?"

Ricky pushed himself to his feet. "No. And we're worse than useless waiting around out here."

"He's right," said another miner, her voice firm. "What use are we if we won't even march down to those gates and demand they tell us what's happened to the Mayor? We owe it to him. We owe it to ourselves. We've spent our whole lives under the thumbs of the glasshands and we've come all this way just to remain under their thumb, is that it? Have we come all this way to do nothing?"

A murmur of agreement, a shuffling of boots in the snow. Another voice piped up.

"We've already been waiting here long enough. We should've gone when the Silverbird did."

"It's not too late to catch up," said Ricky, and he was surprised they even listened to him. "One of him won't be as effective as hundreds of thousands of you, no matter how he acts about it."

The miners exchanged meaningful looks, the ones further at the back craning their necks to try and get a hint of the ongoing conversation. 

"We'll need weapons," someone said.

This simple sentence kicked things into motion. The miners were a people who knew how to do one thing very well, and that was complete tasks given to them in an efficient, timely manner. Ricky watched as, for the next five minutes, the people busied themselves by salvaging axes and pickaxes, old daggers and swords that had been relics until now. Some even wielded shovels and fire pokers. The set looks on their faces made it quite clear that they were more than ready to use these weapons, makeshift or not. They all nodded at each other for a moment or two, gathering courage from each other, for each other.

"We owe it to ourselves," said a man form near the back. "And to our children. And our children's children." A pause. "No more."

A general murmur of agreement, a wave of nodding heads. No more, no more, no more.

Ricky stood where he was for a few minutes, watching the marching crowd descend the hill. They passed around him like the sea around a ship. Then he followed, feeling the first flutters of excitement in his stomach.

The lack of activity within the city was the first warning sign. The miners chose to cross using both the bridge and the frozen river around it. The dam creaked ominously above them. It was so colossal, so tall that when Ricky tried to see the top it seemed to simply blend into the night sky. The only thing that made it remotely visible was the lack of stars within its blackness.

A few miners approached the gates. Locked tight.

"Give us the Mayor!" someone shouted, their voice lone among the drifting snow that fell out of the dark sky like ashes from smoke.

A chorus of similar calls went up. They swiftly reached a raucous level. Ricky climbed onto the bridge's ledge so he could see over the heads of the people. The streets and houses beyond the gates seemed abandoned, yet there was movement on the walls. A brazier was lit up, flaming to life. The shouting of the miners dipped as they awaited some response. Instead, another brazier was lit, further down the wall. Then another. And another. The braziers sprung into flame all the way up the wall, up the hill, disappearing over the crest. The silence that they left was heavy enough to crush. The miners weren't unfamiliar with signal fires. They knew exactly what they were. For a few minutes there was nothing but the sound of shuffling feet and shivering breaths. Ricky squinted at the top of the dam. It seemed to be growing, blocking more stars at a frightening pace. It was an oddly familiar shape, one that had Ricky's heart skipping every second beat. Then someone screamed, driving ice into the hearts of everyone around them.

"A SHIP!"

A round of gasps filled the air. Ricky watched in horror as the mining ship seemed to grow larger and larger over the dam, until it seemed that it was about to tip right off. But it shuddered to a slow halt, rumbling the earth with the impact of its steel hull against the dam wall. At first, nothing seemed to have happened. Then white cracks appeared in the dam, white due to the foam of the water spraying through. Another cry went out.

"RUN!"

Chunks of stone the size of buildings fell away from the dam wall as the water exploded through. Ricky marveled at it, at how slow the water seemed to move due to its mass, at how it twisted in the air, curling as it dropped towards them, a deep shining blue. The water swelled forwards, roaring, too wide and too sweeping to be outran. Ricky could hear the terrified screaming of the miners, the scramble for life, the clattering of weapons to the ground, but it all seemed echoed compared to the rushing in his head, the same rushing as he heard when he went swimming along the seabed. The water wouldn't harm him. He had put his whole life's trust in it, dedicated his every living and breathing moment to it. So as it got closer he put out his hands, palms facing forwards. They trembled slightly with the adrenaline, the fear he was mentally unaware of, but physically weakened by. 

The wall of water reacted to him. It slowed to a halt where it was. Ricky's eyes widened as a gust of wind broke over him, spraying the familiar salty tang of seawater against his face. He smiled widely. It was him. He knew it was him. He could feel it in himself. His blood was rushing through his body - his blood, and so much more than his blood. It made his heart stop and clench and tremor, made his face go numb. It was an ecstasy bordering on insanity. He couldn’t blink or breathe or speak a word. He didn’t need to. He was more than himself, more than a human body with the need to pump air through its lungs and blood through its heart. This body was just weighing him down, holding him back. The need to get rid of it was sudden overwhelming.

The water turned over and over on itself, a churning mass of white froth, climbing higher and higher against the air. Still Ricky felt no pressure, no weight; he simply kept his hands out, steady, their terrified trembling gone entirely. His eyes found the snowcapped city. It looked awfully small now. The tallest buildings were weak and easily crushed. And they could be crushed. Ricky could wipe the entire city off the face of the land. A small part of him wanted to, more than anything. With a flick of his hand he could return the landscape to its original state, nothing but nature and gods. No greed. No false rulers wrapped in gold and embroidered fur, smelling of sweet spices.

The wind was still whipping his face, salty droplets on his skin. He thought of Hettie the serving girl, trapped in a situation she believed to be lucky but was nothing but the crafted evil of the glasshands. How many like her were in that city? He couldn’t do it. It wasn’t right. His mind screamed at him in frustration. _Take this, take this and use it!_

Behind him, he heard the first rattling of the gate in its hinges. He looked over his shoulder in time to catch the surge of black cloaks pressing against each other, large gloved hands gripping the iron of the gate, the furious shouting filling the air once again, even above the thunder of the water. He thought the miners had fled in fear. Instead, they were enraged at the trickery, the betrayal, the attempt to wipe them all out in one heartless move. Ricky could see the stone beginning to crumble around the hinges, dust falling onto the snow. In the windows of the houses far beyond there were frightened faces lit by candles. The guards on the walls seemed at a petrified loss. The voice in Ricky's head demanded his attention again, ordering him to send the dam's water crashing into the buildings of the town. But he couldn't. He wouldn't take the victory from the miners, those who deserved justice for the suffering imposed on them. It wasn't his victory to take.

The black iron of the gate screeched, a horrendous sound, audible even over the chorus of anger from the miners. They suddenly flowed forwards, and the gate swung aside, tipping on its one hinge, twisting under the weight of the miners climbing over it. The guards fled into the city, faced with an entirely different kind of flood than they had expected.

Ricky brought his hands together slowly, interlocking his fingers. The churning mass of water reacted, curling in on itself, joining in with the water of the river below. The ice split, loud and harsh, as the water under it flowed forwards. The mining boat tipped on its side; the water deposited it gently on the bank, its huge size gliding across the snow to come to a slow halt. The dam continued letting itself flow into the river, draining itself peacefully back towards the ocean. Ricky felt its anger dissipate. The flecks of salt spray against his skin were as fond as kisses.

When he turned on the bridge, there was no one to be seen. The miners had entered the city; he could hear their thundering footsteps. Ricky himself felt ecstatic. He _was_ here for a reason, he had known so right from the start. He wished Tinsley had been here to see what he'd done. Ricky knew he'd have a tough time trying to convince him of what had just happened. But he didn't _need_ to convince him. Tinsley's purpose in his life had been fulfilled; he had led Ricky here. That was all he was required to do. Ricky reminded himself of this, firmly, before advancing into the city.

He followed the trodden snow, up and up the hill, winding through the brazier-lit streets. Some of the iron sconces lay on their sides in the snow, steaming and sputtering. He saw some faces in windows and doorways, concerned, confused, half-asleep. Before he knew it he was running, sprinting towards the noise, the sound of crashing weapons and smashing windows. The miners were chanting now, the same furious phrase over and over; _no more, no more, no more!_ The world seemed to shake with each word. Then all of a sudden an earsplitting cheer rose into the sky, almost drowning out the sound of creaking iron and splitting hinges. Ricky ran faster despite the breath burning in his lungs. He had played an important part in this, and he was sure he had many more parts to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u have any questions about ricky's use of his powers and other character's reactions, worry not!! it will be dealt with next chapter, it just didn't fit in with the flow in this one :D


	10. False Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What is the shape of this problem?_  
>  _Has the day invaded the night, or has the night invaded the day?_  
>  _To unravel a torment you must begin somewhere_  
>  _The hour is devoted to revenge."_ \- Louis Bourgeois

The unrest was already tainting the land. It was felt first in the midlands. The Grand Market was witnessing less selling of goods and more gossiping at the stalls. The murmur of voices rose into the trees above, mixing with the heady perfume of spices and dyes and fresh meat. The Temples underwent a dip in visitors, the attractions closed their doors, as more people preferred to stay at home than risk the roads when the Council's guard was liable to lash out at anyone who looked at them askew. The further the news spread south, the more it seemed to change from a dreadful fog to a slick coating of oil, waiting for a flame. In Arcania the streets were abandoned. Students and scholars alike had opened their doors to hear the angry marching of Librarian's boots, the striking of their spears off the cobblestones. Classes were cancelled, pigeons flooding the sky for the morning as the students received the notices. The only School that continued seeing life was Past and Future, where the Council's chambers resided. No doubt their scholars were hurriedly trying to rewrite the news from Snow's End, craft it to put the miners in a bad light. No deaths had officially been reported, but Fran was aware that this wouldn't last for long. The Council had the power to change any information they wished to change. Before she'd met D, she'd had no way to tell apart the truth from the lies. But now she was aware; she trusted the news D brought to her that morning, under the guise of having to return a book she'd borrowed. Their two-minute hushed conversation had left Fran with a buzzing in her head for the rest of the afternoon.

In Gravehearth, the clouds were hanging particularly low, closing in on the fog that rested on the grounds outside the city. It muffled the noise of the Eyes on the walls, of the small braziers being lit atop their tall poles. The Eyes carried flaming torches from one to the other, lighting the braziers as swiftly as possible. The braziers were always prepared with dry wood and a cloth soaked in oil. They sprang to life, each with a _fwoosh_ that carried across the silent streets. It was the most subtle alarm that they had been able to come up with.

The reaction to this warning was always the same. Fear would throw on his cloak and hurry from his study, polishing his wire-framed glasses on said cloak as he hurried down the stairs. He couldn't hurry as much as he used to be able to. His knees complained occasionally.

As he crossed the Square his footsteps would echo, snapping, and soon he'd be joined by another pair of footsteps. Rage would join him, still fixing the golden spine to her back, adjusting her deep red headscarf. The tall and twisted black iron gates were a direct walk from the Square down Sorrow's Way, where candles glimmered softly behind the diamond-patterned windows set into the dark wood sashes. The smell of coffee, tobacco, nutmeg and cinnamon. The whispering of servers and patrons. From far away there came the sound of shovels shifting soil, hammers and saws forming coffins. Sconces hung from iron chains that creaked in the dull fog. It was a city where one had to listen very, very closely to believe that you weren't alone in the mist.

Grief, Denial and Sorrow were already at the gates, fixing their own appearances to make it seem as if they had been up and out for hours, and not hidden away in their studies. The Eyes opened the gates for them, pushing them back either side, their faces entirely hidden behind smooth golden masks that hid all but the eyes, making them appear to be strange mannequins, or puppets. Their limbs were hidden below flowing black cloaks, their hair hidden beneath hoods that blended into their shoulders. A few accompanied Fear and the others out onto the fog fields. The gates were closed behind them. Then they waited, breathing quietly, readjusting their ceremonial pieces; Sorrow set the golden skull mask more firmly on their face, Denial unhooked and hooked again the golden jawbone over his ears. Then, more quiet.

Sound was deceiving around Gravehearth. Something that sounded far away could end up being right next to you, and sounds that came from right next to you could end up fading away into the distance, more rapidly than was humanly possible. The first sounds of hooves against soil came suddenly, and the shadowy figures of the Councillors emerged from the fog, a guard carrying a glowing lamp on an iron rod in a feeble attempt to light the way through the fields. Fear waited until the Councillors got close. There was two of them this time, wrapped up in deep jewel-coloured cloaks; one emerald, one ruby.

"Greetings to you," said the one in the ruby cloak. "You were expecting us?"

"No," said Denial, his voice cool. "We were near the gates. A Procession is in motion. The families require peace and stability at this time, and we must insist that you respect their wishes. Their loved ones are to be buried within the hour."

The emerald Councillor’s horse shifted. She pulled at the reins to keep it still. “How coincidental that every time we come by, there’s a Procession.”

“Many people die every day, Councillor,” said Sorrow, inclining their head. Their mask gleamed in the firelight. “Perhaps you could play a part in reducing that?”

This got a cold silence. Fear cleared his throat.

"What is the meaning for your visit, if I may ask?" he said.

"To make sure all is in order," said the ruby one, pulling his scarf up over his nose. Gravehearth's climate was cool and damp, especially to those not from it. "Is all in order?"

"Yes," replied Fear, and the others nodded serenely. "All is in order."

A lingering pause. The two sides observed each other in silence. The Councillors seemed to be waiting for one of the five to blurt out that they'd heard about the uprising in Snow's End, just so they could enter Gravehearth and rummage through every building as they pleased. News could only come from the Council. News from any other source was a threat, punishable by law. So Fear stayed quiet and calm, as did the others. Waiting, patiently.

"There have been worrying rumours from the north," said the emerald Councillor, "about a group of rebels attacking Snow's End. These rumours are unverified."

Grief feigned surprise, a delicate hand on her chest. "A rebellion? How?"

"We don't know. We've sent a delegation to find out exactly what has happened."

"The same sort of delegation that you sent to the Roost not too long ago?" asked Rage with convincing innocence.

The Councillor stared at her, eyes narrowed. "Similar."

"I fail to see what that has to do with us," said Fear, raising his eyebrows. "We're far from Snow's End here, Councillor. The furthest away, I believe."

"It's routine. That's all." The ruby-cloaked Councillor smiled coldly. "There's no need to feel threatened."

"Your daughter did well to get out of this miserable pile of rubble," said the other Councillor, eyeing the ivy-swamped ruins far beyond the gates.

"Francesca wanted to leave," said Fear, his voice pointed, "and I'm not one to get in the way of what people believe is best for themselves."

The Councillors fixed him with cool looks, their horses shifting. The guards around them stared at him too. They seemed to be deliberating whether or not his words counted as insolence. Then they exchanged a look before pulling at the reins of their horses.

"Good day," said the ruby one. "Thank you for your... cooperation."

Fear just nodded, as he was sure the others did too. The Councillors turned their horses, and made their way back into the fog, the glimmering candlelight of the guard fading away into nothing. Only when they were surely gone did Fear turn around, following the others back through the gates. The Eyes closed and locked the gates behind them before going back to their posts. Fear followed Rage back down Sorrow's Way, the others following. They ducked into a quiet coffeehouse with only one or two customers present. They chose a table far at the back, and the barista arrived swiftly with water and freshly brewed coffee. He bowed before returning to the counter.

"So it's true," said Denial quietly. "About the north."

"It must be," said Rage, adding a drop of milk to her coffee, stirring it smoothly. "Which must mean that all of it is true. About the miners. And about the Child."

"Perhaps it's time to tell him," said Sorrow, glancing at Fear, "about where he comes from, and why he's here."

"Not yet." Fear shook his head slowly. He took a sip of coffee, black. "He's still too naive. Too idealistic. He needs to be more grounded before I tell him."

"He will need to leave Snow's End before the Council's delegation gets there."

"I know," said Fear, heavily. "I know."

* * *

The Mayor had been sitting in silence for some time. The day that had passed had been quite overwhelming to him.

Firstly, his brother had betrayed him from the first. The city guards had welcomed the Mayor through the gates, and although he had noticed a strange guilt on their faces, he had chosen to remain ignorant. He wouldn't believe that his own brother would have cut their blood tie loose. He had no faith in his niece. She had never felt for anyone but herself. Her life consisted of nothing but gathering wealth into her arms, with a disregard for whoever she took it from. What else could her life consist of, anyway? She had no stress, no worries. At least her father - the Mayor's brother - remained somewhat sane, somewhat grounded. Enough so that he knew the miners outside the gates were a legitimate threat to his position within the city.

The Mayor and his group had been escorted to the Mayor's old house. As he got closer, he felt sick. It was grossly grand, with thick glass windows and magnificent double doors for an entrance. Inside was the cavernous hallway, the spiral staircase he used to play on as a child. The domed ceiling was still in place, but now the glass was covered in snow, casting a cool light on the room. The Mayor's brother had emerged from the parlour, and spread his arms with a warm smile.

"Absalom. You're back."

The Mayor had accepted his embrace, although it hadn't felt exactly genuine. Then he stepped back and they observed each other. The Mayor, in his raggedy dark clothing, his thickly furred cloak, and his brother, in rich hues adorned with detailed embroidery and glittering jewels.

"You've gotten old," said Amadeus, raising a bushy brow. His hair had retained more darkness than the Mayor's had.

"You've gotten... plump."

"Well, we are a product of our circumstances, aren't we?"

"I'm inclined to disagree."

Amadeus just smiled. "Let's not argue. I'm sure you're hungry." His gaze drifted over the Mayor's shoulder. "And you've brought... friends?"

"This is Manda," said the Mayor, ignoring the false friendliness. "She's the head medic at the Mines."

Amadeus looked her over - her tangled red hair, the rough skin on her hands - with vague disgust. "...How do you do."

"I'm fine," she replied lightly. "How're you?"

He just nodded before turning back to the Mayor. "Will you eat and drink with us again? It's been such a long time since we've seen you."

"Very quickly," said the Mayor. "Then I have important matters to discuss with you."

"Of course."

So they had eaten - tender lamb stuffed and flavoured with cloves of garlic, oiled with herbs, and roasted vegetables, and meaty gravy. It was so rich the few miners felt ill afterwards, as did the Mayor. Amadeus refused to discuss the waiting miners outside the gates while they ate. Midway through the dinner, the Mayor's niece swept in. She appeared to be in quite a mood, plonking herself down on the seat beside her father, impatiently waving over a serving boy to fill her plate. The miners exchanged looks.

"Romilda," said Amadeus, giving his daughter a stern look. "Say hello to your uncle."

She poked at the lamb on her plate. "Hello, uncle."

"She's had a bit of a rough time lately," said Amadeus, brows raised. "Something of hers went missing. Right out the window in the middle of the night, a few nights ago. The girl - what was her name? Helen? Harriet?"

"Hettie," said Romilda into her food.

"Yes, Hettie let him loose. She didn't check the windows were closed. But you punished her accordingly, yes, Romilda?"

"Yes, father."

The Mayor's face was stony. He had stopped eating. "I wasn't aware that the punishment of slaves was still practiced around here."

"Oh, they're not slaves," said Amadeus with a roll of his eyes. He held his cup aside to be filled by the serving boy. "They're safe here. Safer than they would be out in the Mines, I think you'd agree?"

"I think we're done eating," said the Mayor, setting his knife and fork down. He raised a hand as a serving girl hurried over to take his plate. "Don't. It's alright. I can remember the way to the kitchen myself. Can you, Amadeus?"

His brother shook his head wearily. "You're still so righteous about these things. Let her take your plate."

"I want to talk to you. About resources. About the wealth _my_ people generate and its current distribution into _your_ people's hands."

"Oh, not now. Stay the night and we can discuss it in the morning."

"I'd rather we discuss it now."

"Since when are my people not your people too?" said Amadeus, a little sharply. "Have you really disowned us entirely?"

"Entirely. And proudly."

For a moment, Amadeus simply seemed tired. Romilda was still eating, her existence confined within her own head. Then Amadeus picked up his small glass of akevitt and tapped it three times with his knife.

"I apologize, Absalom. I'd hoped you weren't here to demand such things from me."

"I haven't demanded anything from you," said the Mayor, his bushy brows drawing into a frown at the sight of guards appearing in the doorway. "What is this?"

"Take them away," said Amadeus, resting a hand across his eyes, tired. "Separate rooms. They've chosen their paths."

The miners had seemed prepared to struggle, but the Mayor had simply shook his head, getting to his feet. A struggle would just end in death. He should have listened to Tinsley, someone who had been through all this before, but he hadn't. He'd had too much faith in his old home, had forgotten why he'd left it in the first place. He let himself be escorted to a room upstairs, and since then had been sitting by the window, watching the encampment beyond the walls. He fidgeted with some objects on the bedside table - a bowl of fruit, only there for decoration. The Mayor wondered how the people here could let such fruit sit and rot just for a room to look pretty. A bowl of fruit such as this could save lives out in the Mines. Beside the fruit was a strange dagger, its hilt decorated, the blade engraved. It didn't look as if it came from anywhere in the north. He turned it over in his hands. It was strangely beautiful.

After a long while of staring out the window, he saw movement in the encampment. He wanted to open the window and shout at them not to come after him, to remain patient, just until morning, but his voice didn't have a chance of being heard from such a distance. So the miners had spilled across the white ice of the river in a black pool. Then the braziers had been lit, one by one, up and up along the wall and over the crest of the hill beside the dam. What had happened in the following minutes had changed his views on everything he thought he had known.

The mining boat had caused the dam wall to crumble like sand. The water gushed out like blood from broken skin, and the Mayor hadn't even heard his anguished cry as he threw himself against the window, eyes wide in horror. He had unknowingly brought hundreds of thousand to their deaths. He wouldn't be able to live with himself. He had already reached for the dagger on the bedside table.

Then the wall of water stopped. For a moment the Mayor believed that his mind had broken, that everything was simply going slowly, horrifically slowly, due to his terror. Yet as he watched, the water remained still, churning in on itself, white with froth. He had watched as the gates were forced inward by the miners, heard the harsh screeching of iron over the rumble of the dam's water. Then the door to the room had burst in, the lock shattering, and the Mayor spun around in shock.

"Tinsley?"

"Finally. There you are. I've already found Manda and the others." Tinsley sheathed the dirk that was in his left hand, grabbing the Mayor by the sleeve and dragging him out of the room. There was blood on his face and neck, on the chest of his coat, but it seemed that it wasn't him who was injured. "We have to go. Now."

"It's okay, it's okay. I saw them, they've entered the city. The miners."

"They've what?" Tinsley turned to face him in the hallway. Blood dripped off the blade of his rapier, slick against the silver. "Impossible. I saw the dam collapse. They're gone."

"Something happened," said the Mayor, still feeling as if he was in a dream of some kind, of the worst kind. "I don't know what."

Tinsley studied him for a few seconds. "You're in shock. We have to keep moving."

The sound of voices from outside caught their attention, swelling to a crescendo. Then, the clattering of weapons to the floor, and a ground-shaking cheer. Tinsley seemed baffled.

"They've surrendered," said the Mayor, snapping back to normal. He paced down the hallway, towards the landing, and looked down on the hall, which was littered with weapons that the guards had dropped. "The glasshands have nothing now. No protection. They had one plan, one plan that should have been flawless but..." _But it somehow didn't work._

Tinsley joined him, watching the miners begin to pick up the weapons that had been dropped. "So you've won."

"It seems so," said the Mayor, feeling oddly numb. "It seems so."

He ordered the miners to gather the leaders of the most affluent families in the city. This included his brother. They were to be brought to Ironhall, the only building that could house such a vast number of people. The Mayor could tell that the miners wanted to celebrate, to break into the overstuffed larders in the city, to garner a taste of rich foods and sweet alcohol, mead and wine instead of bitter akevitt. But for now, he refused them access. The business of the night was not done. The glasshands had to undergo a trial for their attempted murder of thousands. Yes, the night was long from over.

When Ricky arrived at the mansion, the miners parted before him in silence, watching him warily, keeping their distance. There was something different about him. He seemed more sure of himself, if this was possible. His dark eyes were brimming with excitement. The Mayor would speak to him later; it was clear he had something to say.

Tinsley and Ricky remained in the Mayor's old house. They both understood that it wasn't their place to have a voice in the proceedings. The Mayor left them in the parlour room, with food and drink for if they got hungry. Other than that, the entire mansion was empty, but for them. The silence of all the rooms weighed down on them. The crackling fire was a lonely sound.

"This is where I was kept," said Ricky into the silence. He had recognized the building immediately, and had hurried upstairs to get the ceremonial dagger he'd brought from home. Thankfully, it was where he had left it. "Where I was held when I first got here. In a room upstairs."

Tinsley was wandering around the room, picking up items he found vaguely interesting, turning them in his hands, just to place them down again. Blood still stained his coat, but he had wiped it off his face and neck. "Coincidental."

Ricky picked up a small scroll from a table, unrolling it to find a map. He looked at the island that was his home, and touched the wooden ring that hung around his neck. "What happens after this?"

"I don't know." Tinsley spared him a sidelong glance. "Not thinking of going home by any chance, are you?"

Ricky let the map roll back up by itself. "Why do you want me to go home so much?"

"Because you irritate me immensely."

"That's not my problem." Ricky leaned against the table, hands gripping the edge of it. "Maybe you should leave."

Tinsley arched an eyebrow at this. "I was hoping your bad attitude was a temporary thing. It seems that you're constantly like this."

"Afraid so."

Tinsley continued his meandering around the room, hands loosely clasped at his lower back, gloved fingers intertwined. His head was tilted up, studying the oil portraits of grand people in grander furs, the intricate plaster on the ceiling, the soft red wallpaper. He stopped in front of the large fireplace. Chunks of snow slapped against the windows, just audible over the crackle of flames. The silence was weighted and strange. Ricky rested a hand on the large plush arm of a chair, brushing the soft fabric back and forth, distracted. Tinsley’s voice jolted him from his absent mind.

“Beautiful city, isn’t it?” Tinsley had taken down a painting from the wall, holding it by its golden frame as he looked it over. “Beautiful but evil.” He looked over his shoulder at Ricky, face unreadable. “Do you ever want to destroy something and cherish it at the same time?”

Ricky shook his head. “No. I always know what I want to do.”

“Is that so.” Tinsley waved a hand at the room. “What would you do with this place, then?”

Ricky took in all the finery laid out around him, the cloud-soft armchairs and the heavy velvet curtains, all the golden items that had no need to be golden, all the cups still half-filled with rich wine, all the plates still holding half-eaten sweetmeats while those outside the gates starved. He looked back at Tinsley, who was still looking at him with a raised brow.

“I’d destroy it,” said Ricky without hesitation. “Destroy it and build something better.”

Tinsley didn’t respond for a moment. “It’s really that easy in your mind.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t know what I expected,” muttered Tinsley, placing the painting back on its hook. Ricky watched the movement of his shoulders as he lifted the heavy frame back into position. “You have no idea about the history of this country. This city is thousands of years old.”

“That’s nothing to the gods. They’ve been here forever.”

Tinsley gave him a long look before turning back to the painting. "Well, I suppose it must be easier to view the world with such holistic detachment."

Ricky stayed quiet. Sometimes he wasn't aware of what the words Tinsley used meant, and he sure didn't want Tinsley to know that they weren't equally educated. After a moment or two, Tinsley continued talking.

“Why would your gods let a city be built just to let it be torn down?”

Ricky waved a hand at the room. “The gods gave these people a chance to make something great. They wasted it, and tainted it. Now it has to be taken away.”

Tinsley seemed mildly amused at this. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you.”

Ricky smiled, just a little. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“It makes me want to knock that self-righteous little smirk right off your face,” replied Tinsley quietly, crouching down a little with his hands on his knees so that his eyes were level with Ricky’s. “What would your gods do if I did that, hm? Would they smite me on the spot for making you blubber like a child?”

Ricky didn’t back away, but his smile dropped. His eyes remained on Tinsley's, defiant. “I wouldn’t blubber like a child. I’ve withstood pain you couldn’t possibly imagine. I was marked for my faith. I bled for it.”

Tinsley’s voice was still quiet. “I was marked for something I had faith in too. Over and over again. I bled for weeks. Months. Don’t try and talk to me about pain.” His gaze dropped to Ricky’s markings as he straightened up. “You're proud of them, aren't you."

"Of course I am."

"How."

Ricky pondered this, pushing up the sleeve of his coat and shirt to look at the deep blue swirls in his skin. "They remind me I have a purpose. That I always have and always will have a purpose."

Tinsley's gaze was still hard, his brows drawn together slightly. "I've seen them painted on people. I wasn't aware that they're meant to be _in_ the skin."

"Where have you seen them painted on?" asked Ricky in confusion. "That's not how it supposed to be. That's a mockery. False devotion."

Tinsley's pensive manner vanished, as if remembering who he was talking to. He turned away and crossed towards the table of amber-filled bottles, filling a cup for himself. Ricky sat on the arm of the nearest couch, watching Tinsley take a large mouthful of the drink before filling it again.

"You drink a lot," he said.

Tinsley kept his back to him. The glugging of liquid out of a bottle sounded again. "It's the only way I can bear being around you."

"But on my island, you refused wine."

"...It could've been poisoned."

"I proved it wasn't poisoned."

"You have an irritatingly good memory." Tinsley plonked himself down in a chair near the fire, kicking a leg up on the low table between it and the other chair. Then he removed his gloves and began rolling himself a cigarette with his newly acquired tobacco, pinching it along the paper. "I'm drinking to celebrate."

"You don't seem very happy though."

Tinsley stopped rolling his cigarette, turning his head to fix Ricky with a glare. "You have no concept of personal boundaries, do you?"

Ricky shrugged. "There's a lot more boundaries here than I'm used to." He nodded at the paper and tobacco in Tinsley's hands. "What's that?"

"Cigarette. You don't have cigarettes?"

"I don't think so." Ricky got to his feet, moving closer to Tinsley, head inclined curiously. "What do they do?"

Tinsley finished rolling the cigarette, running the tip of his tongue along the edge of the paper to stick it down. Then he held it upright between thumb and forefinger, studying it closely. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing at all."

"Then what do you use it for?"

Tinsley placed it between his teeth before reaching aside for a lit candle. He let the tip of the cigarette hover in the flame before drawing back and inhaling deeply. When he exhaled, smoke drifted from his mouth and nose. Ricky's eyes widened.

"What is it doing?"

Tinsley kept his eyes closed, relaxing in the chair, slumped low. "Nothing. As I said. It just feels good. Leave me alone."

"It doesn't smell nice."

Tinsley's eyes opened, and he threw them to the ceiling. "Do you ever stop talking."

"Not really. I even talk in my sleep, I've been told."

"Fantastic news."

Ricky scowled at the dry response. "It's impossible to talk to you. It's like drawing blood from a stone."

"Have you ever considered," replied Tinsley, "that I don't want to talk to you?" His eyes found the dagger in Ricky's belt, brightening slightly. "What's that toy you've got there?"

Ricky watched warily as the other man got to his feet. "It's ceremonial. I brought it from home, for luck."

Tinsley stuck his cigarette between his teeth, speaking around it. "Let me see."

Ricky looked at the extended hand. "No. It's mine."

"C'mon, little man. Let me see it."

"I don't want you to touch it."

Tinsley grinned at him, as if it was all a game. He took his cigarette from his mouth. "So you respect your own boundaries, is that it?"

Ricky got off the couch, backing away from him. "If you touch it, you'll ruin it. It's blessed."

"Just hand it over. Stop being so dramatic."

Tinsley closed the space between them with surprising speed, catching Ricky between himself and the wall, shoving the shorter man back against it with a forearm across his chest and his hand gripping his shoulder. Ricky glared at him from behind his mussed hair as Tinsley simply took the dagger from his belt, holding it to the light.

"Nicely made, I'll admit," said Tinsley, pensive. "A bit short, but blades should reflect their owners, I think."

"Give it back," demanded Ricky, struggling a little. Tinsley hardly seemed to notice. "It's mine. Give it!"

"Oh, you want it back, do you?" Tinsley stepped back, and in one fluid movement he turned on his heel and flung the knife across the room. It sank into the painting opposite, all the way up to its handle, right between the eyes of the woman's portrait. Tinsley seemed quite satisfied, taking a drag on his cigarette. He turned back to Ricky. "Well? Go fetch."

Ricky gritted his teeth, his eyes watering with anger. He knew he wouldn't be able to reach the dagger's handle, and he knew that Tinsley knew this too. "You're- You're the worst person I've ever met."

"That's very sad to hear." Tinsley sat back down in front of the fire, occupied with his cigarette. "I'll try not to lose too much sleep over it."

Ricky stood in fuming silence for a moment. Then he pulled off his coat, throwing it aside as he crossed the room, muttering curses to himself. He took hold of the table and started pushing it across the carpeted floor, putting his entire weight into it in order to budge it. Tinsley's head appeared over the back of his armchair at the sound of grunting and cursing, a puzzled frown on his face.

"What in the world are you doing? Even with the table you won't be able to reach it."

"Then I'll put something else on top of the table," replied Ricky with breathless irritation, still shoving.

"You're ridiculous. You'll fall to your death."

"And I'm sure you'll do a happy little jig around my body."

Tinsley watched in vaguely amused silence for the next few minutes as Ricky tried and failed to retrieve the dagger from the painting. It was only when Ricky stacked one chair on top of another on the table that he intervened.

"Ricky, stop it." He crossed the room to him, hands on his hips as he watched Ricky clamber up onto the table. "Don't ruin everyone else's night by accidentally killing yourself. That would be extremely selfish."

Ricky ignored him, focused on scaling the chairs in a very perilous manner altogether. Tinsley's eyes watched him sharply.

"You're going to fall."

"I'm not," muttered Ricky.

"You are. It's sliding. The chair is sliding. For the love of-"

Tinsley darted forwards as the bottom chair's legs slipped against the table. It was more his natural instinct than anything else. His hands flew out, and he snatched a wide-eyed Ricky from the air, one arm under his shoulders and the other under legs. He carried him away from the dangerous contraption of chairs before dumping him onto the floor. "For crying out loud, just stay there. I'll get your stupid knife."

Ricky propped himself on an elbow, his heart still racing. "I can get it myself."

Tinsley ignored him, taking the fallen chairs off the table before dragging the table aside with little exertion on his part. Then he took a quick run-up to the wall, reaching up, his fingers brushing the hilt of the dagger before he landed back on the floor. Ricky laughed at him.

"You can't get it either. Well done."

Tinsley glared at him, red-faced. Then he took the rapier and pistol from his belt, placing them aside, before turning back to face the wall. His eyes were focused, his body poised, bent slightly forwards. There was silence as he took a steadying breath or two. Then he sprinted at the wall, and this time his gloved hand grabbed hold of the dagger, yanking it from the painting as he fell back to the floor, stumbling slightly on his landing. He turned, his face bright and triumphant. Ricky shrugged, unimpressed.

"What in the name of the gods has happened in here?" The Mayor stood in the doorway, looking from the toppled furniture to the ruined painting to Ricky on the ground. "I've only been gone for an hour!"

Ricky got to his feet, accepting the dagger that Tinsley shoved against his chest. "Sorry."

"How did it go?" asked Tinsley, dusting himself off.

"There's some questions unanswered," said the Mayor, looking at Ricky, "about what exactly happened with the dam."

Ricky's face glowed. "I know what happened. I'll speak if it's required."

"Wait, what?" Tinsley threw a disdainful look at Ricky before turning his attention back to the Mayor. "What does he have to speak for?"

"Some of the miners are saying he did something at the dam." The Mayor was still watching Ricky curiously. "And I'm... inclined to believe it."

"Well? What was it?"

"He stopped the water. Made it hit some sort of wall."

Tinsley arched an eyebrow, watching the Mayor's face like he was waiting for him to crack a joke. "You're not serious."

"I saw it myself. From the window here."

"You don't know what you saw."

"Don't treat me as if I'm some hysterical lunatic," said the Mayor, reprimanding.

"You're trying to tell me that this little bastard stopped a burst dam with nothing but his hands? Yes, I'm treating you as if you're an hysterical lunatic. You need some rest."

"Ricky comes from a place untouched by-"

"Ricky tried to kill me and would have gone ahead and done it if it wasn't for Sky. He's killed an unknown number of people. He's unstable and mentally deranged. I don't think there's much more to it than that."

Ricky's voice was oddly hurt. "I'm not unstable _or_ mentally deranged."

Tinsley looked over his shoulder at him, but didn't bother turning. "You _did_ try to kill me, though."

"I thought the gods had brought you to me as an offering. But they had brought you to me so that you'd bring me here."

Tinsley let his head fall forwards before turning on his heel to face Ricky. "You are - and I repeat - unstable and mentally deranged. Every time you open your stupid little mouth you prove my point ever more." He took a step forward, grabbing hold of Ricky's hands and lifting them up between them, ignoring Ricky's glare. "These are normal human person hands. Not magical. Not occult. Just flesh and blood." He dropped the hands as if they were coated in something disgusting. "Now stop spouting nonsense before I lose my patience."

"I'm not spouting nonsense," snapped Ricky, his face flushed with anger.

"You are. And I'd say the only way you know how to stop flapping your mouth is by letting someone stick their cock into it."

Ricky started forwards, fists clenched, but the Mayor swiftly separated them from each other's view.

"I've made my decision," said the Mayor firmly, facing Tinsley. "He'll speak at the trial. First thing in the morning. The truth will come out then."

Tinsley seemed somewhat put out by this, like a child who'd had their favourite toy taken away and given to another. He glared at Ricky. "Yes. It will."


	11. Turmoil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Yes, the beauty of nature is sweet - the earth, sea, stars, the orbit of the moon and sun._  
>  _But all else is fear and pain."_ \- Aisopos

"Ricky, this is a serious situation. If you truly did what you say you did - what we think we saw you do - then you are changing a lot of people's lives in here. If you truly performed such a feat..." The Mayor pressed his lips together in a line, serious. "...you'll attract a lot of danger to yourself."

Ricky raised a curious eyebrow from where he stood in the centre of the small space before the crowd. The air in the hall was stuffy and thick. "How so?"

"The Council are seated in the south. Their work to degrade your gods is nothing if not obsessive."

"They're not _my_ gods," said Ricky, fixing him with a direct look. "They're your gods too. All of you."

"You can't force your beliefs on other people."

"I'm not forcing anything. Is the air forced into your lungs? Is the blood forced into your heart? No. You grew to breathe, the blood in your veins grew inside you. It's a fact of life. It's indisputable. Just as the gods being your gods is indisputable." He was speaking to the crowd now, with the same confident ease as he had spoken to gathered crowds back on his home island. "I didn't save you. I didn't do anything. The gods allowed me to act on their behalf. You owe them your lives. You always have."

The miners shared strange looks; some anxious, some unsettled, some enraptured. But most of all, they were stunned. The vast majority of them had lived lives free from any sort of faith, their spiritual sustenance starved beyond recovery. All they had lived for was their next meal, which itself wasn't always guaranteed. But now, within the space of a week, everything had changed for them. They had changed everything for themselves. They had uprooted their old lives for better soil elsewhere. Not too long ago they had been scorning Ricky's naivety, whispering behind his back. But naivety that turned out to be truth? That wasn't naivety at all. It was fresh, bare-faced leadership.

The doors to the hall opened, letting in a sharp, cold gust of air along with a few flakes of snow. Heads turned to observe Tinsley as he strode down the makeshift aisle towards the Mayor, Manda, and an irritated-looking Ricky. Behind him slouched Sky, her white neck curved inward to avoid the roof of the door.

In Tinsley's left hand was a tin bucket filled with water. He didn't stop walking until he was right in front of Ricky. Then he dumped the pail of water down on the ground between them; some splashed out over the rim, staining the stone floor dark.

"That," he began, slightly breathless, "is water straight from the river. Whatever you're trying to convince us you did, do it again."

Ricky stared at him in sudden silence. He could feel the small victory he'd almost achieved slipping between his fingers and melting into the ground.

"Didn't you hear me?" said Tinsley, hands on his hips. "Do it again. If you manage to even cause a single ripple I swear I'll fall on my knees right this minute. So go on." His eyes were cold, unblinking. "Do it again."

Ricky looked him in the eye, quietly fuming. "No."

"Exactly. Because you can't do it."

"There's no need for me to do it. What the gods have gifted me is not a toy for your entertainment."

"Just admit you can't do it and that you're a lying little conman."

"I don't feel the need to prove anything to you," said Ricky firmly. "You're nothing to me."

Tinsley shook his head with a wry laugh. He turned to face the miners, one hand on his hip and the other gesturing vaguely as he spoke. He took slow, casual steps; people's eyes followed. "I've seen more battles, more war, than everyone else in this room combined. I know how it affects people. I've seen it with my own two eyes. The stress of battle can make you think you saw something you didn't - maybe because you hoped to see it, maybe because you were so frightened your mind just snapped-" He clicked his fingers sharply. "-and it's something that's even more common in large groups. I have no doubt that you believe you saw something." His voice hardened as he turned back to Ricky, who was glaring at him murderously. "But I also have no doubt that this little bastard is here to spread his faith to anyone who's down and desperate enough to believe him, and he'll grab any opportunity to convince others that his gods are real, and not merely children's tales."

Ricky watched him in cool silence. "You speak like a man who has no faith in anything at all."

"The real world doesn't revolve around faith, little man."

"It does," said Ricky, not backing down even as Tinsley took a threatening few steps towards him. "The world has meaning to it. Once you begin to discover the meaning-"

“I have seen horrors," interrupted Tinsley, his eyes bright and glittering with anger, "more than you could ever possibly understand. I held friends in my arms and I watched them die there too. When you see things like that you realize very very swiftly that the world hasn’t a thread of meaning to it. People say that seeing death and violence drive you mad, but I’ve only witnessed the exact opposite. It makes you see the world for what it is; cold and hateful. So you can stand there and act as if you’re wiser than anyone else in this room but let me tell you something, little man-" He spat the nickname between gritted teeth. "-your naivety is disgusting.”

Ricky heard the rustle of cloaks as heads turned to look at him again, waiting for his response. Even the Mayor was watching him with interest. Ricky looked back at Tinsley, and said: "If there's no meaning in the world, what did you fight your battles for?"

Tinsley's face changed, the anger lessening somewhat. His voice was quiet. "Nothing, in the end. Nothing at all." His voice hardened again as he straightened up. "Because it's as I said. There is no meaning. We're born for nothing and we fight for nothing and we die for nothing. That's it."

Ricky raised an eyebrow. "If that's what you truly believe, then there's no one in this room more naive than you."

Tinsley came closer, a hand resting on the hilt of his rapier. "What have you been through in your life, Ricky? Nothing, it seems. You have the innocence of a particularly stupid child. Everyone here has seen enough to know that if there are any gods out there, they're cruel and unjust and either don't have the power to change anything or have the power and just don't want to change anything. Which is it?"

"They _are_ changing things."

"Oh yeah? How. Give me a single example."

Ricky smiled at him, a small one. "You just lived through an example."

Tinsley's jaw worked, his gaze flat. "Egotistical and naive. It doesn't get much worse than that."

"I think we've had enough of the insults," said the Mayor, before turning to the crowd. "Gather all the gold you find in the houses. Don't harm a single individual. Bring the gold back here. We're going to melt it down into coins to bring to the Grand Market. We'll buy everything the Mines need, everything it's been short of, and more than that. Then we'll discuss what to do about labour in the Mines. I think an annual cycle of workers would be the safest, but I'm interested to hear what all of you think."

"And what about the glasshands?" asked one of the miners. "They tried to kill us. All of us."

A wave of nodding heads and murmurs.

"It's too soon to discuss such things," said the Mayor firmly. "We're all tired, we're all running on nothing but adrenaline. For now, find somewhere to rest. There's more than enough rooms in this city. And tonight..." He smiled, his eyes crinkling. "...we drink."

A wave of cheers and clapping. The Mayor turned to Manda and smiled, and she smiled back, satisfied. Tinsley let his opinion on the matter be shown on his face in a dark scowl. He had wanted the glasshands punished for the crime they had attempted to commit. Just because they hadn't succeeded didn't mean they were any less guilty than if they had. It was the intention, the planning, the pure thought of such an act that was the crime in Tinsley's head. He reached for the bucket of seawater, pulling his hand back when Ricky stepped between them, the hem of his coat brushing the stone floor.

"I'll take it," said Ricky coldly.

Tinsley straightened back up. "Fine. As long as you drown yourself in it."

"Mm. Funny."

Tinsley tutted at him from between his teeth before turning away sharply on his heel. Sky followed him back out the door, shaking her head, her white feathers rustling.

* * *

The inauguration was scheduled for tomorrow. Professor McClintock sat in his study, flicking through the profiles of the students he had chosen. He'd managed to secure a few brilliant minds for himself this year, with help from a certain student. But he'd have to be careful. So far the Council gave the School of Storms and Skies a comfortable amount of distance, letting them work on with their experiments and studies. As long as they produced a weather report every day at noon, the Council were happy. They were quite hung up on the weather reports, actually. Suspiciously so. Banjo had yet to fathom why.

"Which one is Francesca?"

Banjo found her profile in the pile, handing it to the woman standing beside his chair. "Here. Her father is one of the higher-ups in Gravehearth, so I've been told."

The woman took the piece of paper in her gloved hands, taking a few steps away to read it in the fading evening light on the wide balcony. Over her shoulder, hidden inside, a large pair of ink-black eyes blinked slowly in a pale heart-shaped face.

"Why did Darla choose her?"

"She kept an eye on her in classes," said Banjo, heaving himself to his feet. He poured himself a glass of wine, and offered to pour a second, but was refused with a single wave of a hand. "She could tell Miss Norris was quite dubious of the lies right from the start. She wasn't as quick to believe the books the Council gave to the students."

"Mm." She came back into the study, handing the paper back to Banjo. She quickly fixed her dark cloak, making sure the vivid orange of her coat, the gold gilding hammered into it, was covered. "Keep me updated on how she progresses. How all of you progress. I'll forward where I am when I can."

Banjo skipped a beat. "You're leaving? Already? Holly..." He sighed. "You've hardly been here an hour. It's not enough. We still need to talk about- about everything."

Holly didn't reply for a moment. She picked at a loose thread on one of her gloves, silent. "He's in the north."

"Who?"

"Who do you think?"

Banjo paused. He hurried to his office door and glanced up and down the empty corridor outside. Then he closed the door over and locked it with the heavy iron key before returning to Holly and whispering: "The Silverbird?"

"Yes. If that's what you want to call him. The title gave him a bit of an ego boost, I think, so I prefer Tinsley. Kept him grounded."

"How do you know he's in the north? He couldn't have written to you. If he had, they'd have found him already."

"He has a friend there. He was always one for befriending people he shouldn't." She rested her hands on the stone rail of the balcony, watching the monotonous bustle of the streets below. She caught the gleam of a Librarian's spear in the slanted orange sunlight. "It's not a coincidence that a rebellion happened in Snow's End. If there's one thing Tinsley's good at, it's being rash and impatient. He was made to upset the status quo."

"I thought he was trying to maintain it," said Banjo quietly, Holly watching his lips closely, "on the Roost. Isn't that why the war happened?"

Holly didn't respond for a moment. She was a person who liked to consider her words before she let them out of her mouth. "The war isn't over. The Council made a mistake in lying about Tinsley's death, implying that he was shot like a dog. My people were furious. They understood that Tinsley had to die, but they despised the manner in which the Council did it. It was insulting to kill one of our own in such a way. If anything, more people defected from the opposition than ever before when they heard the news."

Banjo listened with wide eyes. "I had no idea it was still ongoing. We've been told for the last year that the Roost is at peace."

"No one has any idea here. The Council doesn't want anyone to know that they've been trying and failing to stop the Rising for the past year and a half. They forgot that my people are bred for battle. They have the numbers, but not the know-how. We're holding our own."

Banjo's curious face fell once he connected everything in his head. "...You're going to bring Tinsley back, aren't you."

"It depends on whether he wants to come back." She looked at him with her deep, calm eyes. "You didn't see him when I freed him. They might not have managed to break him, but they were close. Dangerously close. He almost refused to leave his cell. Just sat in the corner, hiding his face." She shook her head, looking away. "It was monstrous. The walls had his own- his own _blood_ on them. It was..." She went quiet. "I think he wanted to stay. He wanted to die."

"Oh, don't say that."

"I asked him not to take Sky, you know. I said that it might be better for him to just find somewhere to stay, somewhere quiet, and just live a normal life. Recover from what he could." She shrugged. "Of course, he didn't. And now he's back to doing what he does best."

"And now you're back to bring him home."

She turned to the creature in the corner of the room, where it was crouched under the shelves. She gave its short, curved beak a gentle rub. "If I can find him. And then, if I can convince him."

Banjo gave her a long look. "I'm sure he'll listen to you. He always has."

"We'll see." Holly led the creature out onto the balcony; it blinked its round eyes, clacked its beak. "I'll keep in touch as best I can. Do the same for me."

"I'll try my best."

He watched her sit into the saddle of the griffin. Its flat face turned away from him as it climbed over the balcony rail and let itself fall, spreading it silent wings, gliding swiftly over the city. Smaller, smaller, gone. Just like that, just as she'd arrived. Banjo took a mouthful of his wine and swallowed it, taking a moment to appreciate the glorious, fiery sunset over the sea. Then he returned to his preparations for the inauguration. Francesca Norris' profile lay separate from the others. He placed it on top of the pile.

* * *

The glasshands were under house arrest for the night. Although, their houses weren't exactly prisons. There were no other choices, however. Physical prisons didn't exist in Snow's End. The true prison was the harsh everyday routine, as inescapable as any physical cell could be. It had been omnipresent. But not tonight.

Every pub on every street was packed to the brim with miners and workers. The air was a hum of cheers and song, the smell of spiced meat and roasted vegetables strong. The miners served themselves from behind the counters; tonight, not even the servers were to work.

Tinsley and the Mayor sat at one of the bar counters. The Mayor had a flagon of ale in one hand, his cheeks ruddy and eyes glittering with drink. Tinsley himself hadn't touched a drop. Even with the circumstances, he didn't feel like celebrating. The Mayor wasn't holding back, however; with a few drinks in him he was talking more on this night than he usually talked in a year.

"This is what it's like, Tinsley!" he was saying, only a small bit slurred. "It can be done! We can win!"

"Up here, maybe. The Council is far from here."

"The glasshands were just as much of a Council, believe you me." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I know you don't want to hear it, but it was the lad. He did something. He did!"

Tinsley continued shaking his head. "Not now, Absalom. You're drunk. Talking nonsense."

"I'm not as drunk as I'm planning on getting. Come on. You should have a cup."

"I'm fine."

A round of laughter rose from behind them. Tinsley turned his head, eyes narrowing at the sight of Ricky smiling and laughing and joking with a table of miners. As if he belonged. As if he wasn't a total stranger here, more of a stranger than Tinsley was. But Ricky seemed entirely at home with a cup of wine in his hand and all attention on him. He was warm and welcoming, touching the sleeves and arms of the miners he spoke to, making them blush. They loved him, and he glowed with it. Tinsley looked away, gritting his teeth, but not before his gaze glanced off Ricky's, sharp enough to cast sparks.

For a few seconds Ricky's attention was on Tinsley, where the man sat with his arms folded on the countertop and his shoulders hunched defensively.

"He's a bit of a mopey bastard, isn't he?" said one of the miners, following Ricky's gaze.

"Mm." Ricky didn't look away from Tinsley's back as he replied. "What's his problem anyway? Why is he here?"

"He can't go home, apparently. Exiled, I heard."

"He won't last long now," said another miner, bringing her cup of ale to her mouth. "He was exiled from his home for starting a rebellion and now he's come here and taken part in another? The Council will have his head this time, no doubt about it."

"He started a rebellion?" said Ricky, brows raised in surprise. "How? He's so stuck up about- about 'order' and 'discipline'."

"Of course he is. He's from the Roost. They're all like that. Walking around in their fancy coats with their noses in the air."

"You mean they're all like that where he's from?" Ricky shook his head in amazement. "Remind me never to set foot on his home. I don't think I could bear it."

"Well, they're not all so hateful." A pensive pause. "And he's particularly hateful towards you. Is it true you tried to kill him?"

"I heard you tried to drown him in the river," said someone else, leaning forwards on the table.

Ricky scoffed. "Wrong way around."

"I heard that you tried to murder him while he was in some inn by the sea on the way here," came another voice from further down the table. "That you appeared out of the waves and tried to drag him back to the depths, like some sort of monster or- or demon."

Ricky laughed at this, shaking his head. "And you believed that?"

A silence. "Not until I saw you do what you did. With the dam." No one laughed.

Ricky was thoughtful for a moment, taking a sip of wine. His voice was curious. "Who told you all these stories about me?"

A shrug. "I just heard them around."

Ricky looked at Tinsley, who appeared to be getting ready to call it a night. He wouldn't have pinned Tinsley as a gossiper, but then again, he hardly knew him at all, really. "...I'll be right back."

Ricky hurried across the packed room. He caught the door behind Tinsley, who didn’t even glance back at the thud of a hand against wood. “Rider. I want to talk to you.”

Tinsley ignored him. He was already halfway up the stairs, away from the dull sounds of laughter and song that clung to him like a curse. Ricky set his jaw and followed down the hallway. The door to the pub room swung closed behind him.

“Hey. Hey!” Ricky stopped at the bottom of the stairs, glaring up at where Tinsley had come to a halt on the top step. “Have you been spreading rumours about me? Are you that insecure?”

Tinsley stood with his feet on different steps, one hand resting on his knee, not quite unlike some sort of king posing for a painting. “What are you yammering on about now. I want to go to bed, and the last thing I need to hear is your voice.”

"I just heard some very interesting stories about me. About my supposed attempts to kill you."

"Okay. I don't care."

"Don't walk away-"

"Do you not know how gossip works?" said Tinsley dryly, turning back to face him down the stairs.

“No. I guess I don’t.” Ricky took a single step up. “So explain it to me.”

“Get lost.”

Ricky spoke sharply, making Tinsley pause in turning away. “You’re jealous.”

Tinsley glared down at him. “I’m not jealous.”

“You _are.”_ Ricky shook his head in disbelief. “You’re one of the most immature people I’ve ever met. Going off to your room so you can sulk because you’re not the centre of attention. Is that what you're used to, hm?”

“I know I’ve probably said this to you before, but I would love to beat the absolute shit out of you.”

Ricky laughed, a short, sharp sound. “I can’t wait for you to try.”

Tinsley held his gaze, an icy cold glare on his face. It crossed Ricky’s mind that Tinsley would actually be quite handsome, if he didn’t scowl so much. Then, as if Tinsley had heard his thoughts, he smiled.

“You know, Ricky, I’ve been thinking about you and your obsession with fictional gods recently, and I think I know now why you’re like that.” Tinsley descended a few steps, casual. “It’s because you came from nothing. Nowhere. No parents, hm? Did they lose you? And did no one care enough to try and find you?" He didn't stop, even at the sudden hurt on Ricky's face. "You’re convinced that you can have some meaning in this world if you can attach yourself to some phony gods, that they’ll cause _everything_ to make sense.” He smiled again, a smug one. “You’re not here for any reason, Ricky. You washed up on your island because your parents didn’t want you, and you washed up into my life because your island didn’t want you, and now I don’t want you either. So go and get washed up somewhere else, will you?”

Ricky’s breath was stuck in his throat. He was choking on it. It was forcing tears into his eyes. “Fuck you. You don't have anyone either. You're alone too.”

“Our loneliness is different, Ricky,” continued Tinsley, his voice cold and cruel. “I _had_ something to be exiled from. You had nothing and you still have nothing. You should be used to it by now.”

“Fuck you. Shut up.” Ricky’s breaths were jumping so erratically it was hurting him. He pressed one hand to his chest. “Shut the fuck up.”

Tinsley dealt him a disdainful once-over that may as well have come in the form of a punch in the teeth. “I think you should find someone else to cry to.”

Ricky swallowed through his tears, determined not to let them free. His voice cracked as he spoke. “I'm not crying.”

Tinsley laughed and turned away, shaking his head as if he found the entire interaction baffling yet amusing. He went up the stairs and into his room without a second glance. The door closed heavily behind him.

* * *

It was a few hours later by the time he woke. It was still dark, the sky clear, the stars glittering like coins at the bottom of the ocean. Tinsley could have appreciated the sight more, if he wasn't so thirsty. At least it sounded as if the celebrations had dwindled. There was no sound from downstairs; the miners must have moved on into the streets.

Tinsley got changed, seeing as he wasn't one for waking and going back to sleep again so soon. He stretched, his hands linked over his head. He stood for a moment, running his hands through his hair before locating his gloves and pulling them on. Then he went downstairs.

The candles were still lit in the hallway, melted halfway down, pale wax pooling in the brass holders. Tinsley pinched them out as he passed, one by one, breathing in the smell of burnt wick. He came to a sudden halt in the doorway to the pub room, his hand still hovering, as if to pinch out another candle.

“Oh.”

Ricky looked at him, but for once his face betrayed no emotion. He stabbed at some leftover lamb on the platter in front of him, managing to skewer a slice and shove it into his mouth. He spoke around the mouthful, moodily. “What.”

Tinsley waited for him to say something more. Anything. “...You’re still awake.”

Another rattle of the platter as Ricky stabbed at the lamb, another slice going into his mouth, which he chewed loudly, although he didn’t appear to be relishing it. “Yeah.”

“Any r-”

“Yeah there’s a reason,” came the sharp interruption.

Tinsley felt himself growing hot under the collar. “Right.”

He sniffed. Then he spied Ricky’s cup, and realized that he too was craving some drink to soften whatever was causing his mind to remain so sharp. He fetched the flagon, poured himself a cup, and pondered bringing the whole flagon to the table. But when he looked back over his shoulder at Ricky, half-slumped in his chair, glaring at the cold meat on the platter, he decided against it. Ricky had seemingly had more than enough for the night. Tinsley advanced slowly towards the table, disguising his nerves by taking a long drink. The wine wasn’t to his liking - too sour, too strong. He took the seat across from Ricky. Maybe it was the lateness of the night, the seemingly nonexistent time, but he felt strangely guilty for how he'd spoken to Ricky earlier. He shouldn't have said anything. It had been too personal, too close to home. He could see that now.

“Ricky…” He cleared his throat again, folding his arms on the table. His gaze remained lowered. He didn't want to apologize, but he knew he should. The words tasted bitter in his mouth. “About… About what I said earlier. I-”

“I remember what you said earlier,” said Ricky, icy and a little slurred. “Don’t think I’ll forget it, either. Not for a long long time.”

Tinsley looked away, jaw clenched. He wasn’t sure what to say, or how to approach the other man. He simply didn’t understand Ricky, and he wasn’t understood by Ricky either. So why was he even bothering to try and bridge the gap?

“You said-” Ricky’s elbow landed on the table hard enough to make the cutlery rattle, and his finger pointed waveringly at Tinsley’s face. “You said we’re both alone, right? That we both have nothing, yeah? Well at least I'm making something for myself. What do _you_ do?” Ricky laughed, snide, sitting back. “Acting as if you have the weight of the whole world on your shoulders. You don’t, you know. You’re not half as important as you think you are. No one really cares about- about your ‘story’. Your 'struggle’ isn’t at the forefront of everyone’s minds.” He gestured with his cup; nothing splashed out, since it was almost empty. “No one cares about you, just as much as no one cares about me. But at least I handle it with some guts. Some dignity.”

Tinsley didn’t look away from his face once, following it with just his eyes. “Dignity.”

“Dignity,” repeated Ricky through his teeth. “You don’t have a fucking ounce of the stuff. You- You don’t have honour either. Or chivalry. Or basic fucking human decency or anything you’re supposed to have because you’re a _shit_ person-” He had to grab onto the edge of the table to stop himself from sliding off his seat. “-and no wonder you got exiled. No wonder. Because you’re so fucking easy to hate. Because you’re a horrible person. And there’s _another_ difference between our loneliness, Tinsley, and it’s that I was born into it, but you fucking _made_ it for yourself. You ruined your _own_ fucking life because you’re-”

Tinsley picked his cup up, and he threw the contents right into Ricky’s face with a sharp and precise jerk of his arm. 

For a moment Ricky was still, unblinking, dark wine dripping from the end of his nose, from locks of his hair, from his chin, staining his shirt. Then, with a cry fit for a battlefield, Ricky threw himself over the table and onto Tinsley. His weight brought them both to the ground, the stool sliding underneath them, the platter of meat clanging to the floor and flinging slices of lamb about, their cups following, all of it a furious cacophony of noise. They landed tangled together, Ricky shouting and cursing and raining blows down on the other man until Tinsley fixed an arm around his waist and forcibly rolled them, Ricky's head dashing off the ground, his shoulders skidding against the stone. Tinsley's voice had risen too, unutterable curses spilling from his mouth as he took advantage of the fact that he was entirely sober and his opponent was not. He punched Ricky in the face, hard enough to cause the man’s head to hit back off the floor, and then he kept hitting him, and all of a sudden blood was gushing from Ricky’s nose and still Tinsley didn’t stop hitting him. He felt fingernails claw across his cheek, across his neck, and they stung enough for him to know that they’d drawn blood too. He felt Ricky's body struggling against his, and felt the strength in it, the muscles knotting. Ricky's thighs pressed in against his hips, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to force a grunt from Tinsley's mouth, and in a surprising display of strength Ricky rolled them so that he was on top, shoving a hand in Tinsley's face, pushing it aside. Tinsley snarled a curse, bucking his hips off the ground, rolling them again, following instantly to pin Ricky down with his weight. Ricky paused, breathless, his face red and oddly flustered. Then he slapped Tinsley across the face. Tinsley slapped him back, harder, before he continued punching him, face and body, and Ricky raised his arms to cover his head, the sharp fury not leaving his eyes even once.

Tinsley felt hands on him, hands much too large to bother fighting against, and he was dragged off Ricky like a doll. The Mayor positively flung him against the table, Tinsley grabbing onto it to stop himself from falling to the ground. He could taste blood on his tongue. He could feel a stinging cut on his brow, on his lip. Ricky must have hit him more than he'd thought.

"What do you think you're doing?" bellowed the Mayor, looming over him. "He's blind drunk!"

Tinsley fixed up his collar with shaking hands; it had come undone. "He started it."

"If you want to fight the lad, you'll do it when he's fit for it." The Mayor shook his head, eyes narrowed below his bushy brows. "Where's your honour, Tinsley. Did you drop it when running away from the war you started?"

Tinsley let his gaze drop, and swiftly let his head follow. He leaned back against the table like so, head hanging, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. A bead of blood dropped from his open mouth. It splashed against the wooden boards of the floor.

The Mayor crouched down beside Ricky. "Are you alright, lad?"

Ricky rolled onto his side, propping himself on an elbow, and his eyes were wet with angry tears - they blended with the blood on his face. "I hate him. I hate him. I wish he was dead."

"Shh, you don't mean that. You're both just- just tired." The Mayor helped Ricky to his feet, essentially lifting him onto them, before checking his face. He put some pressure on the bridge of Ricky's nose. "Does that hurt?"

Ricky nodded, swallowing. "Yeah."

"Hm. Might be broken. I'll have Manda see to it." The Mayor looked at Tinsley, his face hard. "And she can see to you in the morning. Go and clean yourself up."

Tinsley watched as they left, fighting tears, his lip quivering. Then he picked his cup up off the ground and slammed it down on the table and filled it right to the brim with sharp, sour wine. He'd clean himself up alright - water for his body, wine for his mind. He'd drink until he forgot who he was, as he used to do every night, every morning, every day.

* * *

Ricky dropped to his knees in front of the bucket of seawater. He had let Manda clean up his face - thankfully his nose wasn't broken, but there'd be bruising by the morning. Ricky didn't mind bruises. They'd fade in time.

His hands were still bloody, his palms stained with the blood from his nose. But more importantly, Tinsley's blood was there too. It was under his fingernails from when he'd scratched at his neck, tearing his collar open on his stupid coat. Blood was invaluable when it came to divination. Ricky had learned that already, from his last attempt. But this time he wanted particular visions, ones from the past; he wanted to know everything about Tinsley. He wanted to know where he came from, what he did, why he was the way he was. He wanted to learn every little weakness he might have, and how to undermine his strengths. Ricky rinsed his hands in the water, letting the blood turn it a pale red, like weak wine. Then he watched.

At first there was nothing but a furious mixture of emotions that threatened to drag Ricky under from the start - hope, fear, anger, so much anger, righteous and hateful and bitter. Ricky let himself breathe in the smells - blood, smoke, dust from fallen rubble, meat over a fire, steam from a pot of water bubbling over an ally's mother's fire. The taste of the tea was always sweeter like this; the secret ingredient was the secrecy, they would joke among themselves. Ricky let himself feel whatever touched his hands. More often that not it was the soft, downy insides of a pair of well-made gloves. But there was also the weight of a rapier, the flash of sunlight off the metal as it moved in a blur. Sometimes it was the weight of a body; one warm and bare-skinned, another limp and cold. Ricky could taste salty tears on his lips. He forced himself to stay separate from Tinsley's memories, to only observe, not to become absorbed, but Tinsley's emotions were overwhelming, frighteningly so. Ricky felt something heavy in his hands, unfamiliar; the pistol. It was coated in dust, as was the bloody, gloved hand holding it. He could still taste wine and spices on his tongue. There were sounds in the distance, far in the air, explosions, glittering sparks in the night sky. The explosions grew louder, closer. Ricky's head rang with the sound of them. Screaming, crying. Wine on the stone floor, splattered like blood. Tables overturned, gleaming metal and firelight. Fear, terror, stomach-churning loss. Horses' hooves thundering against hard-packed dirt, cleaving through the grass. The screeching of griffins, blood glistening on feathers. Yellow eyes round and bright with panic, the irises black pinpricks. He could taste vomit in his mouth, it burned the back of his throat. Hands on him, too many to fight off. A dark night in a cell, the smell of mold and damp cloying in his mouth. Hands still shaking, breaths shallow. He couldn't feel anything anymore; grief ravaged his heart in his chest with teeth like knives. Sudden blinding light, shackles on his wrists, heavy and cold. Eyes watching him, so many eyes, unblinking, merciless. The jeering crowd, the stone that struck his temple, making him stumble to one knee. A warm trickle of blood down his cheek. Pain in his throat from swallowing tears. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't. Ricky was drowning, he couldn't claw himself out of the memories. They swallowed him whole. Words echoed in his head; _guilty, guilty, guilty._ A verdict decided before the trial had even begun. The punishment announced. A cell, a different cell than before. The humiliation as his coat was torn off him and thrown aside, his gloves, his jumper which he fought to keep on. The damp stone through his trousers, against his knees. The air cool and unwelcome against his skin. He crossed his forearms over his chest. He was shaking, not from the cold. How to blink? How to breathe? He was dead long before he would die.

When the first lash hit the skin on his back, Ricky screamed.

* * *

"What's wrong with him? What's happening?" The Mayor stayed down on his knees beside Ricky's writhing body. He had to shout to be heard over Ricky's screams. "Is it some sort of attack?"

"I don't know!" Manda looked Ricky over, her hands shaking, flustered and helpless. "I don't know what's happening to him! He was fine earlier!"

Ricky's back arched off the ground, his hands clawing at his shoulders, his screams punctuated by chest-heaving sobs. His face and neck were drenched with sweat, his shirt stuck to his body with it. Blood that had been leaking from his nose when they first found him was now gushing, smeared down his chin, down his neck, staining the white rug.

"Do something!" The Mayor felt entirely helpless, and he didn't appreciate the feeling. His eyes were wide. "Manda!"

"What in the name of the gods is going on in here?" Tinsley appeared in the doorway, holding his coat closed across his bare chest. His eyes were wide, brows drawn together, in a look of indignant inconvenience. He went pale at the sight of Ricky on the floor. "What the fuck is he doing?"

"We don't know." Manda sat back on her knees. "Hold him down for me. I'll go and get something to calm him."

Tinsley didn't take his eyes off Ricky. "No. I'm not touching him."

The Mayor's voice was rough and impatient. "For the love of-"

"You don't even know what's wrong with him! What if it can spread?"

"I think it's some sort of hysteria," said Manda.

"As I've been saying this entire time," said Tinsley flatly. He hadn't moved from the doorway, still holding his coat closed. "He's not well."

Manda's attention was drawn by the odd splashing sound from the bucket beside them. She peered into it and gasped, her mouth falling open. The reddened water was churning, frothing, as if a fire was lit underneath it. She looked back at Ricky's tear-stained, blood-streaked face. Then she got to her feet and kicked the bucket over, spilling the water onto the rug.

Ricky's inhale was sharp and shuddered, as if he had finally broken the surface of an icy lake. He stopped screaming. His body went limp. He panted for breath, hands clawing at the shirt on his chest. His head turned from side to side repeatedly, his eyes fluttering, unseeing, as he said the same words over and over again.

"I didn't know. I didn't know."

Manda shushed him gently before looking at the Mayor. "Help me lift him onto the bed. Be careful, he might still be in pain." She took his legs and the Mayor took his shoulders. She looked at Tinsley. "Fetch hot water and a clean cloth. I'm going to check him for any injuries."

Tinsley reluctantly picked up the same bucket that Manda had spilled and headed for the kitchens. He tried his best to button his coat with his free hand as he hurried down the corridor, but could only manage one or two buttons. The collar hung open, the belt hung loose. He hoped no one else was up and about.

Thankfully, the kitchen was empty but for a kitchen boy who had already been boiling water for tea. Tinsley commandeered the pot, pouring its contents into the bucket and grabbing a fresh cloth before returning to the room. He slowed to a halt on the rug, his heart jumping into his throat. Manda had stripped Ricky of his shirt, and it lay crumpled on the ground. His skin looked like gold in the soft candlelight. Tinsley came a bit closer, head inclined, studying the markings on his body. They were a deeper, stronger blue than he'd thought, now that he let himself look at them properly. They covered his shoulders, his arms, his chest, with the same effect as a drop of ink into water. A tendril or two touched his neck.

"Clean his face up, would you?" asked Manda, not looking up from where she was pressing her fingers into Ricky's abdomen, checking for any internal injuries. "Careful around his nose. It's still fragile from... earlier."

Tinsley ignored the dry jibe. He set the bucket down on the nightstand, clearing his throat before sitting down beside the pillow, his back to the room. He picked at the cloth in his hands, studying Ricky's face for a moment. He was unconscious still, eyes closed, lips parted slightly. His chest rose and fell slowly as he breathed. Tinsley swallowed hard, tearing his eyes away. He pulled off his gloves, a finger at a time, before setting them down on the nightstand beside the bucket of water. Then he dipped the cloth into the hot water, wringing the excess damp from it before turning to Ricky. He didn't quite know where to start. He lightly touched the side of Ricky's face, tilting it towards him, before quickly taking his hand away. He bit his lip. What in the world was wrong with him?

He steeled himself before using his hand to brush Ricky's dark hair back off his face. Something twisted in his gut. He determinedly ignored it, beginning to softly wipe the blood and sweat off Ricky's face. He rinsed the cloth before starting at Ricky's nose, cleaning it up as best as he could, pausing when Ricky let out a small mumble, his dark brows drawing together slightly before relaxing again. Tinsley hesitated at Ricky's lips. He fidgeted with the cloth before trying once, twice, to begin. He sat back with a frustrated sigh, glaring at them. Then he moved on, cleaning the blood off Ricky's chin, off his neck, pushing the cloth up along his throat with long, slow strokes. It made a soft brushing sound against his skin. There was an odd necklace there, leather, with a wooden ring attached. Tinsley pushed it aside. He wiped the cloth along Ricky's collarbones. The water left a light sheen on the small hollow in the middle of them.

Tinsley lightly touched one of his collarbones with the tip of his middle finger, tracing it. His eyes followed. He withdrew his hand once his finger reached the firmer muscle of Ricky's shoulder. He looked at the markings on Ricky's chest and softly, curiously, touched a fingertip to one, following its pattern. No blue stain came off, no residue on Tinsley's skin. They really weren't painted on. Tinsley's fingers curled into a loose fist. _What are you? Why are you here?_ He looked back up at Ricky's face, and went still.

Ricky was watching him, his eyes tired, lids half-closed. Tinsley didn't look away, frozen in place. His clenched fist still hovered over Ricky's chest. After a moment Ricky swallowed, a dry, sticking sound, before saying: "You didn't do my lips."

Tinsley didn't know how to respond to this. He hadn't even blinked yet. He took a quiet breath, but didn't speak a word.

Ricky took hold of the cloth and Tinsley's hand with it, slowly, as if Tinsley could be frightened away by any sudden movement. He pressed the cloth to his lips, Tinsley's fingers on top of it, holding them there. Tinsley could feel the softness of his lips, could feel the rise and fall of their shape through the cloth's fabric. Ricky's eyes were dark and glimmering behind his lashes, drifting down along Tinsley's neck, to the space between his open collar. Tinsley covered the bare skin with his free hand, sharply, as if Ricky's eyes could touch. His face hardened again. Then he stood up, a sudden movement, turning away from Ricky and looking at Manda.

"He's fine." He dropped the cloth into the bucket. "I'm going back to bed."

He left without waiting for a reply. Ricky cleaned the blood off his lips himself, his gaze distant; watching the ceiling, but seeing far beyond it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cleaning blood off your rival's face is something that can actually be so personal


	12. Going South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Evenings in ancient cities, with unknown traditions written on the black stones of vast buildings; the tremulous hours before dawn in flooded, swampy fields, as damp as the air before the sun rises; the narrow lanes where everything is possible." _\- Fernando Pessoa, 'The Book of Disquiet'__

Tinsley lightly touched a fingertip to the cut on his brow, his eyes still fixed on the plain bowl of oatmeal that he was pushing around with a spoon. He wasn't particularly hungry. He hadn't slept well at all. He had almost managed to drift off once, on his back, his head tilted aside, eyes closed and lips slightly parted in that blissful drowsiness, between consciousness and unconsciousness. At first, he didn't think anything of the soft shifting of covers at the end of the bed, the gentle squeak of bed springs. A familiar pair of thighs settled around his hips - familiar only due to the fact that they had recently been there - and hands light on his chest. It was the warm breath against his neck that woke him from his dream. He lashed out with a surprised yelp, throwing the covers aside, panting for breath as he pushed himself back against the headboard. Nothing. The room was entirely empty. In the fireplace the ashes were glowing orange from beneath the black crust on top. Tinsley got out of bed and double-checked the door was locked. Then he sat in front of the fire and smoked a hastily-rolled cigarette. He breathed in the smoke through his nose, deeper than he usually would, in the hopes it would overpower that strangely strong smell of the sea that still filled his head. His hand repeatedly touched the side of his neck where he had felt that warm breath. He sat in front of the fireplace until morning, until the ashes had gone entirely black and the cold grey light of day filtered in through the gap in the curtains.

"You're not eating," said the Mayor around a hunk of buttered bread. The crumbs littered his beard, but he'd clean himself up after. "You should eat. Have some cinnamon on that."

Tinsley shook his head, waving the offer away. "No. I'm fine."

"Plain oatmeal? You might as well eat handfuls of the snow outside."

Tinsley placed a small spoonful of the oatmeal in his mouth. It had gone lukewarm, but he swallowed it anyway. "See? Delicious." He suddenly turned his head to glare at Ricky across the table from him. "Stop that, you little freak. Stop staring at me. It's pissing me off."

Ricky didn't reply. He just raised his eyebrows and lowered his gaze to his own breakfast; oatmeal, into which he had loaded a copious amount of honey, spices, and sliced apple. He was already on his second cup of hot cocoa. The smell of it made Tinsley's mouth water. He had watched with seething envy as Ricky had downed his first cup with the same delight as a child before raving about the flavour for the next ten minutes. Warm? Sweet? It tasted like a hug! Gods, Tinsley hated him. Everything he did just got on his nerves, and Ricky seemed particularly keen on irritating him this morning. He had swanned downstairs in nothing but a borrowed robe, a silken one with an abundance of fur around the cuffs and hem. It was two sizes too big for him, but he didn't seem to care. It hung loose off his shoulders, leaving his skin on display, all smooth and shapely. Tinsley had been livid. He could've bitten right through his spoon.

"I'm certain Manda left your shirt in your room," Tinsley had said, pointedly.

Ricky had smiled sweetly as he took the seat directly across from Tinsley; a surprisingly sweet smile, considering the fact his eyes had bruised darkly after their scuffle the night before. "You're right. She did."

Tinsley had set his jaw and decided to simply ignore the man. Look elsewhere, speak to other people, if he had to speak at all. But then the staring had begun. The lingering dark eyes, their fringe of silky lashes, the strange heat of them. Ricky looked at him more than not throughout the course of the morning, a knowing little smile touching his lips whenever Tinsley spared him a scowl. Tinsley wanted to grab hold of him and shout at him, _what do you know? What do you know about me that I don't?_ But he wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Not now, not ever. Hopefully, soon, he would be rid of Ricky altogether. Their time together was done. He was sure of it.

"Where did you find that?" asked the Mayor, nodding towards Ricky's robe. "It looks like an old one of Romilda's, if I remember correctly."

Ricky brushed the fabric softly. "I have no idea. It was in the wardrobe. It was so soft I couldn't help it."

"Well what were your robes made of back in your hovel on your island?" said Tinsley dryly, still pushing the oatmeal around in its bowl. "Empty sacks with holes for arms?"

Ricky fixed him with an unamused look. Then he winked. "We don't have a need for robes where I come from." He sat back with a grin, stretching his hands back over his head, interlocking his fingers. "I'm surprised you even know what a robe is. Do you ever wear something that isn't covering you from head to toe?"

"Where I'm from, we pride ourselves on our minds," said Tinsley with festering impatience. "Not our bodies."

"Oh, sounds incredibly exciting," said Ricky, relaxing back in his chair. "You can't fuck a mind though, can you?"

"Whore."

Ricky laughed delightedly. "Prude."

"I think that's enough of that," said Manda, getting to her feet and picking up her empty bowl. "Children, the pair of you."

Ricky stifled his smirk, biting on his lip as he folded his arms on the table. He caught Tinsley's eye and treated him to his most salacious wink. Tinsley flushed an angry red, and he got to his feet abruptly, leaving the table without another word. His grip was white-knuckled on the hilt of his rapier.

The Mayor had watched this interaction with vague amusement. He still wasn't too sure what to think of Ricky, but he couldn't deny that the man was entertaining. Strange, but entertaining. He had been unable to explain what had happened to him the night before, why he had been found on the floor in such a state. He just said he had done something risky, and had almost paid the price for it. He wouldn't give more detail than that.

The Mayor got to his feet, gathered up his plate and Tinsley's still-full bowl, and joined Manda in the cavernous kitchens downstairs. A few miners were washing up, drying, some were only up and getting breakfast. Many were still in bed. The vast majority were still in bed. The Mayor was surprised there was any wine or ale even left in the city after the previous night.

"Quite the set, aren't they?" he said. He glanced at all the empty plates and bowls on the countertops. If there was a people that never wasted a single morsel of food, it was the miners. "I don't think I've ever seen Tinsley go that red before."

"Well how long has it been since you saw him?" replied Manda over her shoulder, scrubbing some cutlery in one of the many sinks provided. "A few years, at least."

"Yes, a few years, give or take."

"He's lived a lot since then."

The Mayor gave her a sidelong look, raising a bushy brow. He knew she had something to say, and he had never been a fan of dawdling around an uncomfortable conversation. He turned to her and said, a little wearily: "What is it, Manda?"

She looked at him. Then she turned to face him, one hand remaining in the suds in the sink. "You haven't seen Tinsley for a long while. I know he's your friend, but he has a reputation now. A bad one. Especially in the south."

"I'm aware that the Council has no doubt spread their side of the story everywhere by now, yes. But what are you trying to tell me?"

She pressed her lips in a line. "He can't come with us to the Grand Market. It's too far south. If we bring Tinsley they could turn us away. Refuse to associate with us. The same goes with Ricky. You _know_ what he'll look like in the south, and if they start asking questions, and worse, if he starts answering them truthfully... Don't shake your head, Absalom, it's true. The future of the Mines rests on what happens at the Market, you know it does. We've come too far now to begin taking silly chances." She waved a hand around her. "We've taken an entire _city_ , Absalom. This isn't the end. It's only the beginning."

The Mayor wanted to do many things at that moment. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, and believe it. He wanted to go back to bed and wake up when everything had been sorted out. He wanted to return to the Mines and pretend that nothing had changed. But he couldn't do any of these things. He had no choice now but to go forward.

"You're right," he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "You're always right, you know. I'm very lucky to have you around."

She smiled a sad smile. Then she dried her hands on a nearby towel. "Have you spoken to your brother yet?"

"No. Not yet." A grumbled few words, inaudible. Then, "I suppose I should."

Manda nodded. "I think you should too."

The Mayor grumbled for a moment longer before turning to leave. Manda laid a hand on his arm, giving it a supportive squeeze. He nodded his thanks before moving on.

The glasshands were still confined to their houses. Amadeus and Romilda remained upstairs in their respective suites. The Mayor made his way across the hall, up the spiral stairs, a hand running along the smooth wooden banister. His footsteps echoed on the marble steps. When he was a child, the entrance hall had always been packed to the brim with visitors; inventors from Arcania, traders from the Grand Market, even the occasional riders from the Roost. Ideas were spread eagerly, knowledge was shared. He would sit on the stairs and observe the excited chatter through the banister. After the Discovery, people stopped traveling as much. Inventors were prohibited from free travel, and the process of acquiring permission to leave Arcania was a complicated one. The Roost called all its people back for safety, due to the fact the Council had turned its eye to their home island. Only the occasional trader passed through, and even then they remained at the port, and rarely came past the city walls. It was an old, lonely city now, left alone in the snows like a dying old man in a rocking chair.

The Mayor knocked on Amadeus' door. "It's me. Absalom."

A pause. "Come in."

The Mayor opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him. The room was warm, due to the roaring fire in the grate. His brother sat in a plush armchair beside the fire, a book open on his lap. He seemed vaguely disgruntled, but nothing too extreme.

"Well, Absalom. How did you and your friends enjoy _my_ ale and _my_ home last night?"

"Quite well." He took the chair across from his brother, feeling the warmth of the fire seep into his bones. "And it's my home too."

"It was, once. You renounced it when you chose to live in those rotten Mines."

"Well then I've taken it back, haven't I," said the Mayor, pouring himself a cup of wine.

Amadeus didn't seem too amused at this. He looked at the Mayor from below his bushy brows, with eyes so similar to the Mayor's own. “We all knew you’d turn everything on its head one day. You never wanted things to be the way they were. You didn’t like the idea of more capable people having power over those who were incapable." He closed his book over. "You used to refuse to play kings and queens with me, remember? Those little figurines with their crowns and swords? And their fancy coats?”

“I remember. The Council banned them last year, you know. Banned the entire game. Kings and queens are an illegal subject now. Any little toys resembling them had to be turned in." The Mayor looked into his cup of wine, pensive, before looking back up at this brother. "You can't think this is a fair world we live in."

"It's not. I'm aware that it's not. But there's no other way."

"There is," said the Mayor, firm. "It will no doubt be a challenge, and there'll be powerful opposition, but things can change."

"Tell me, how do you propose to run this city? You've never ran a city in your life. You've kept control of a few filthy warehouses over in the back-arse of nowhere, and now you think you're some sort of leader? Your nickname has given you false confidence."

The Mayor smiled, a small one. "I'm not hoping to run it alone. I'm aware that I'm lacking in some knowledge of the finer details. I want you to help me. I want your people to help me."

"They aren't my people, unfortunately. Every family rules themselves here, and they won't be interested in helping you if you force them from their homes."

"I won't do any such thing," said the Mayor calmly. "My aim here isn't to exclude you or those like you. My aim is to have the voices of my people heard, to allow them some say over their own lives. We've had enough of rotting away at the edge of the world. It's a fair demand."

Amadeus shook his head, pitying. "When the Council gets here, you'll be done for."

"I won't be here when the Council gets here. I'm going south. To the Grand Market."

Amadeus' eyebrows shot up. "Are you truly such a fool? You'll be running right into their hands."

"We're going by sea. We all know the Council only travels by land. They don't even have a fleet."

Amadeus gave him a long look. "I don't remember you being such a risk-taker, Absalom."

He shrugged his shoulders. "I never had anything worth taking a risk for. But for this? For my people? I'd take a thousand risks."

"Be it on your head, brother. Be it on your head."

The Mayor got to his feet, placing his still-full cup aside. "I leave at dawn. I may be back in a week. Perhaps two."

"Perhaps not at all."

The Mayor took a deep breath through his nose. "Yes. Perhaps not at all." He gave Amadeus a quiet look. "Is that what you wish for?"

Amadeus shook his head. "It doesn't matter what I wish for. The truth is the truth. It's inevitable. Frighteningly so."

"Mm. You'd be surprised how truths can change."

With this, he turned away and walked to the door. When he placed a hand on the door handle, Amadeus spoke, albeit quietly.

"Safe travel, Absalom."

The Mayor looked over his shoulder at him. He nodded. "Thank you."

He closed the door behind him. Strangely enough, he felt that the next two conversations were going to be a bit more difficult than the one he'd just had. He had to let both Ricky and Tinsley know that they were to stay behind while he went to the Market. He pondered who to face first. The former would likely go on a long-winded rant about his destiny and the gods, which the Mayor was much too tired to deal with right now. The latter would likely throw a tantrum, and perhaps shout and stomp his feet a bit, especially given the mood he was in this morning. In the end, the Mayor flipped a single silver coin from his pocket. Then he set off across the house, as if into battle.

* * *

The harbour was as cold and quiet as it had been for centuries. Fog brushed the glassy surface of the water with pale tendrilled fingers. There was a single light at the end of the stone pier; it hung on a curved iron pole set into a holder. The flame glowered in the fog, a warning that the land ended there, and beyond lay only an ocean of nothingness. From the harbour the water was black, but it gleamed like quicksilver when the moon was out, as it was this night. Small boats rested along the pier, unmoving on the still water. No birds ever visited, not fish were caused a ripple on the surface. It was as if the scenery was carved in stone, inlaid with silver. Fear always found it strange how the temperature of the water was never tangible. One could dip a hand into it and would touch nothing but a smooth emptiness. To wade into it would feel like crossing to the afterlife. The harbour was simply overflowing with pure, heavy nothing.

Fear checked his watch as he descended the carved stone steps down to the pier. Two Eyes led the way with lanterns, another two brought up the rear. It wasn't often Fear left the city, but he simply refused to miss Fran's inauguration. He hadn't seen her in so long. The weight of the golden ribs he usually wore was replaced with the weight of gifts for his daughter. He had purchased some of her favourite pens from a stationery shop she used to frequent, and also a bag of candy she enjoyed - small, pearl-like sweets that tasted like summer berries. He tapped his satchel to make sure they were all still there. He hoped she still liked them. What if she had found new favourite pens in a new favourite stationery shop? There was certainly no shortage of them in Arcania. And what if she had lost her taste for berry-flavoured candy? Fear hoped she hadn't moved on _too_ far with her life. It was a selfish hope, but he sometimes found it difficult to accept that although she was everything to him, he was only a small part in her own youthful life.

The sound of his footsteps was muffled as he followed the Eyes down to the small rowboat that would take them out to the trade ship, which sat anchored outside the bay. It was carrying satins and velvets and threads from the Grand Market to Arcania, and had stopped at Gravehearth along the way. Fear was grateful for their allowing him to travel with them. Gravehearth had its own small fleet, but the ships were in a sorry state of disuse. They sat further down the beach in the fog, grounded on the pebbles, the wood rotting away to show the ribs underneath.

Two of the Eyes climbed down into the rowboat, taking a few minutes to arrange their swathing cloaks. Fear had changed out of his usual uniform - outside of Gravehearth it looked quite morbid indeed - and was instead wearing a simple black suit and white shirt, clasped at the neck by two golden skeletal hands. Over it he wore a long mauve satin coat, lined with black wool and fringed with delicate embroidery. It was more acceptable wear for Arcania. He readjusted the clasp at his neck as he waited for the Eyes to ready the oars.

"Fear."

He turned at the sound of his name. Sorrow was descending the steps with an Eye beside them. The soft glow of the lantern made Sorrow's mask gleam, the eye holes blacker than usual. They approached him with the quiet, careful steps they always walked with.

"I didn't know you would be departing so soon," they said.

Fear nodded. "My daughter's inauguration is in the morning. I was meant to leave earlier this evening, until those bodies from the Temples arrived."

"We will have to go ahead with the burials without you. There's too many of them to wait."

"There always is with the Temples," said Fear flatly.

"Horrible place," said Sorrow with a slow nod of their head. "It should have been razed to the ground with all the other holy sites."

"It's been razed to the ground in its own special way."

He wasn't sure if Sorrow smiled at this. They never removed their mask in public. "I agree with you on that." They placed a hand on Fear's arm, encouraging. "Come back safe. And be careful. You know the Council will be on edge with what's happened in the north."

Fear nodded. "My goal is to be in and out before they're even aware I'm there."

"Mm. Being quiet is a particular talent us Hearthians have, I think."

Fear smiled, but it was a subdued one. Sorrow always gave off such a strange feeling, as if the very air around their heads was owed more respect than a person could understand. "I'll be back by this time tomorrow evening."

"Safe travel."

Fear climbed down into the boat with the help of the Eyes. Once they were all settled, the oars slipped into the water, and began that steady, lulling movement that could so easily put a person to sleep. Fear closed his eyes and listened to the smooth splashing of water for a moment. Once they reached the opening of the bay, he craned his head to look at the two cliff edges, one to the right, one to the left. In the fog they were nothing but hulking black masses, vaguely shaped, but he could see the arm outstretched on one, palm-down, as if soothing the sea. Some of the fingers of the hand had fallen away over time. Birds nested on the back of it, and on the arm, and most likely on the head of the figure too, but it was too tall, hidden in the dense fog. Into the other cliff of the bay was carved a different figure, their arm also outstretched, holding a crumbling sword towards the sky. Fear could hear the gulls screaming as they circled the cracked hilt. He always told himself that, on a clearer day, when he had the time, he would row out into the bay and see the statues in all their glory. But there never was a clearer day, and he never had the time.

Within minutes they had reached the trading ship, its triangular sails already being unfurled, billowing in the soft breeze that never seemed to reach inland. Fear climbed onboard, his knees complaining somewhat; he wasn't as young as he once was. Once he was on deck he rearranged his coat, smoothing it down. The Eyes carried the few belongings he needed.

"It's bad luck to have the People of the End on board a vessel," muttered one sailor to another as they pushed the boom towards the direction of the wind. The sails filled out. "Even just one of them. Heralds of death, they are."

"He's just going to visit his daughter. Like a normal human father."

"Most normal human fathers don't revolve their life around death."

"Oh just treat him nice," came the flat reply from the other sailor. "He might be trying to save your life one day. And if he fails, he'll be overlooking your burial."

Fear didn't go into his cabin for the first hour of the journey. He was too excited to see clear skies for the first time in years. The fog melted away as the ship cut through the water at a steady speed, aimed south. When the sun first peeked through, Fear closed his eyes and smiled, soaking up the warmth. He was always caught off guard by the all-encompassing heat of the sun. It was gentler, kinder than a fire. The shoreline eventually became clear, dark cliff edges and rolling green on top. He could see some small figures on the land, farmers or traders of some sort. They waved excitedly at the ship. Fear waved back, as sailing etiquette demanded. After breathing in the fresh sea air for another few minutes, he went below decks to rest. When he awoke he would be at Arcania, and he would see Fran again. He drifted off to sleep smiling.

* * *

It took the entire night to ready the mining shops, loading them with the gold they'd forged from cups and plates in the city, ensuring there were enough supplies to last the week-long sail. Most ships would take two weeks at least on the same journey, but most ships hadn't been built in the Mines, and therefore most ships didn't have furnace-powered engines that made the direction of the winds less important than it usually was. The miners divided themselves between those who would remain in the city to prevent the glasshands from simply seizing back control, and those who would travel on to the Grand Market. All through the night, the noise that came from the port was lively and excitable, chatter and laughter and the occasional cheers. It floated up to the city, filling up the otherwise silent air. It was a constant background noise. It was driving Ricky crazy.

He lay face-down on the couch in the downstairs parlour, feeling very much sorry for himself. He was only downstairs because Tinsley was seemingly on the prowl upstairs for someone to verbally berate, and Ricky had no doubt as to who he had in mind. Ricky didn't have time to undergo one of Tinsley's temper tantrums. He had his own problems. He had hoped to travel south with the Mayor, with an ally, but the Mayor had told him he couldn't accompany the miners. It was too risky, he said. Ricky didn't see why. He still didn't see why, even now, hours later.

He turned onto his back to contemplate the ceiling for a while. It was a white plaster and appeared to be patterned with some sort of swirling design. The more Ricky tried to make it out, the more he was just frustrating himself. He shoved a cushion behind his head and linked his hands under it. His hit his head back off it once or twice, to try and make it even remotely comfortable. It felt like it hadn't been used, ever. It probably hadn't been. So many things in this city were just for show. He was sick of it all. He had been on the mainland for almost a fortnight and had yet to leave the north. By the sound of things, most cities were south. Therefore, he had to go south. He just had to.

It was then he decided he'd simply make his own way south. He'd acquire a horse and gather some supplies and take off after the miners had left at dawn. He hurried upstairs, laying low, listening carefully for any striding footsteps nearby. He found a room with a window that faced the black sea. Then he watched, watched as the mining ships took off gradually, making room for others at the port to be loaded. Thick dark smoke stained the dawn sky as the ships sailed towards the horizon, and the water was churned white behind them. Ricky could hear the heavy _chug-chug-chug_ of the ships, even from where he was across the city. It was an hour, maybe more, before all the ships were far in the distance, the sun rising above them. Many people had gathered at the port and on the city walls to watch them leave.

But Ricky, however, was already out of the house. He searched out the stables, readied a horse, as swiftly as he could. He ignored the large yellow eye that watched him from the next stall over, its black pupil dilating and shooting back to the size of a fingerprint over and over. The griffin must have been sleeping in the stables. Ricky was fine with that, as long as it stayed in its own stall. Only once did it try to poke its beak through to him and nibble at his coat, making him yelp in shock, but it seemed to only be entertaining itself. If it truly wanted to harm him, it would have. Easily.

Ricky lead the horse up to the main door of the house, tying it up under the arched covering there. Then he slipped inside and to the kitchens, attempting to keep his footsteps quiet against the marble floors. He walked on carpet, when carpet was available. He wasn't sure if he was allowed leave, and he didn't want to risk finding out. Once in the dark kitchens he found a sturdy leather satchel and emptied it of the vegetables it had been holding. Then he began packing it with better food - herb-encrusted lamb, roasted duck, some hard cheese, soft bread, wine. 

"You're leaving, are you?"

Ricky jumped in shock, spinning around to find Tinsley sitting at a table in the far corner. A cigarette burned in his hand. Ricky swiftly gathered himself.

"Yes. I am."

Tinsley took a drag on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke as he spoke with blatant disinterest. "Home?"

"Try not to sound too hopeful." Ricky closed over the flap on his bag. "I'm going south."

Tinsley laughed at this, openly derisive. "You think you'll make it south? Alone? Looking the way you look?"

"Yes."

"You won't last two days."

"I will." Ricky raised a dark eyebrow. "I thought you'd be delighted to hear I'm leaving. Or will you miss having someone to shout at whenever you're feeling grumpy?"

Tinsley tapped the ash of his cigarette into the empty cup beside him; Ricky didn't have to guess what had been in it. "Do you know what dangers lie south? Have you any idea at all?"

"I don't care what stories you have to tell me." Ricky turned away, busying himself by looking for more food. "I'm going."

"The roads between the north and the south are particularly dangerous up here," continued Tinsley airily, bringing his cigarette back to his mouth. "No laws exist this far from the Council. There's bandits, packs of them. You'll be lucky if they only take everything you have. There's some who'll take not only your belongings, but you as well."

Ricky slowed in wrapping up some salted pork in wax paper. "What do you mean."

"Goods and animals aren't the only things traded around here, little man. A lone traveler? You'd be up for grabs too."

Ricky looked over his shoulder at him. "You're lying. People can't be bought and sold."

"Oh, they most certainly can be. And they are, in the midlands. Frequently."

"You're just trying to frighten me. It's not working."

"And you don't even have a hope of defending yourself. "Tinsley stubbed out his cigarette against the table. "With that little toy you have."

"It's not a toy," said Ricky, glaring at him. He covered the dagger on his belt with his coat. "And it's not used for violence."

"You're going to walk out of this city and straight into your grave," said Tinsley with a smile. "So I wish you fast travel, little man."

Ricky wrinkled his nose at him before shoving the pork into his bag and heading back outside to where he'd left his horse. Tinsley followed, hands loosely clasped at his lower back and a small smile still on his face.

"Can you get up into that saddle by yourself?"

Ricky threw his eyes to the heavens, exhaling sharply. He put a foot into the stirrup, pushing his coat behind him before swinging himself up and into the saddle, taking a moment to feel relief at the fact he hadn't slipped. "Believe it or not, but we have horses where I come from."

"Ragged-looking things, I'd expect."

"Well, they're no griffins, I'll admit that."

Tinsley looked up at him; flakes of snow caught in his hair, melted on his face. "You're not going to make it south."

Ricky inclined his head at this, arching an eyebrow. "Are you worried for me, rider? I don't know how to feel about that."

"I'm not worried for you."

"I know you aren't so cold as you like to pretend you are," said Ricky, wrapping the reins around the pommel of the saddle before folding his hands on them. "That night you saw me in the sea, you thought I was real. You came after me. Did you think I was drowning?"

Tinsley narrowed his eyes at him. "You're talking nonsense."

"Well how else could you have washed up on my island?"

"Bad luck. Incredibly bad luck."

Ricky just smiled at him, a sly one. "I was close to having you figured out, rider. Closer than you were to having me figured out."

"I wasn't trying to figure you out," said Tinsley flatly, "so I hope you enjoyed your one-sided competition." He looked him over. "Do up your shirt properly."

"Excuse me?" 

"Cover your markings. They'll do nothing but cause trouble for you."

Ricky arched an eyebrow. "How, exactly?"

"Because they make you look... different."

"I am different."

Tinsley wasn't very impressed. "And I see you're proud of being 'different'."

"A little."

Tinsley inclined his head. "Maybe I should let you attract whatever trouble you want. If you die, it's no problem for me."

"No skin off your back, so to say?"

Tinsley's eyes widened a little, his brows drawing together, a look of both confusion and offense. Ricky smiled at him, his most knowing smirk, before kicking his horse into a walk. Tinsley remained where he was, staring at the space where Ricky had been. Then he looked over his shoulder at Ricky's receding figure. The snow was beginning to fall harder, flakes swirling through the air in complicated little patterns. He followed Ricky with striding steps, boots kicking snow.

"Hey. Hey, stop." Tinsley took the reins of the horse, bringing it to a halt. Ricky seemed at ease with this. "Why did you just smile like that."

"Like what?"

"Like- Like you were making some sort of joke at my expense," said Tinsley with narrowed eyes.

"I wasn't. I don't know why you'd think such a thing." Ricky reached for the reins, but Tinsley held onto them. "Well, rider, if you want so desperately for me to stay, you could just come with me."

At first, he thought Tinsley was simply ignoring the suggestion. Then Tinsley cocked his head to one side, a highly insulted look on his face. "Excuse me?"

"Travel with me." Ricky kept talking, even as Tinsley shook his head with a half-laugh, a blow of air through his nose. "If all you say is true about the dangers on the roads, then I'll need a... guide, of sorts."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that." Tinsley let go of the reins, giving Ricky a sweeping once-over. "The audacity. A guide? To you? I have no wish to keep you safe." He snorted. "Are your all-powerful gods not too good at guidance after all, little man?"

Ricky remained patient, his eyes calm. "They are guiding me on a higher level than merely physical."

"You must think that the vaguer your words are, the wiser they are. Which isn't true at all. You just sound like a madman. You _are_ a madman."

Ricky jerked his chin up at this. "Fine. You can stay here and rot away for all I care." He looked Tinsley over, and a strange glint appeared in his eye; knowing, and smug about it. He met Tinsley's gaze and quietly said: "If you stay here, you're going to die here. You're going to die right here in this very house, a sad old man with nothing but his scars to show he lived any life at all."

Tinsley's face dropped slowly, muscle by muscle. His mouth hung open slightly, his eyes unblinking. Flakes of snow began catching in his lashes. "What did you just say?"

Ricky held his stunned gaze in silence for another moment. Then he inclined his head with a small smile. "I know things no one else knows. The gods show me all."

"What the fuck are you talking about, you crazy bastard."

"It's really quite simple." Ricky seemed entirely at ease as he spoke, despite the freezing air. He didn't seem to care about the snow melting against his skin. Tinsley therefore refused to show that he was in any way cold, his gloved hands clenched by his sides. "You stay here, and you'll never leave. You come with me, and you'll experience things that will change your life forever. You'll witness the impossible. Days that will change the world." He smiled at him, sly. "And nights you'll never forget."

Tinsley's eyes narrowed. "Shut up. You have no sane thoughts in your stupid little head."

"People will forget your name if you stay here. They'll forget your story. They'll forget you ever existed."

"I said shut up. I meant it."

"And your people," said Ricky with soft, feigned concern. "The same people who were punished for your actions, who lost friends and family in the war you started, who are still being harmed in your name."

Tinsley shook his head, sharply. "The war is over. You have no idea what you're talking about. So just- just shut up!"

"The war is over? Is that what you think?" Ricky laughed. "Your war is not over. And even so, it's nothing but a small skirmish in the true war to come."

"Oh really?" Tinsley wasn't smiling. For once, he didn't find Ricky's ramblings funny. In fact, he was entirely unnerved. "And what war is that?"

Ricky smiled, a sly curve of his mouth. "My war."

"So that's why you're going south? To start a war?" He gestured at the blank space around them. "Where's your army, hm?"

Ricky shrugged. "You have an army."

"No I don't."

"You did. And you could again. You could finish what you started, if you come with me. You could finish what you started, and go even further than you'd imagined you could."

Tinsley let out a quiet breath; it fogged in the air. He hugged himself, rubbing some warmth back into his arms. "And who exactly are you planning on going to war against, hm?"

"Nonbelievers. People who refuse to see the truth."

Tinsley gave him a long look. "I'm a nonbeliever."

Ricky smiled. "You'll change."

"No I won't. _You'll_ be the one who changes, if you go south. Nothing godly lies there."

Ricky looked at the sky; the sun was climbing higher, grimy through the thick layer of clouds. "I don't have much time for this today. I'm leaving. Are you coming or not?"

Tinsley stared at him for a long few minutes, weighing something in his head. Then he smiled, a gesture which made Ricky's eyes narrow. "Actually, I think I will come, Ricky."

Ricky gave Tinsley a suspicious once-over, a flicker of a glance. "Really."

"Oh, most definitely. Just give me a few minutes to get ready."

"...Okay."

Ricky waited in the front garden, still a little uneasy. Maybe Tinsley was just joking, maybe he had no intention of coming back outside. He was probably watching Ricky from a window, wondering how long he'd wait around for. But surprisingly, Tinsley did reappear, leading a chestnut-brown horse through the snow. Ricky eyed it.

"You have a griffin."

"I wouldn't be much of a guide if I was in the air for the majority of our trip." Tinsley swung himself up into the saddle, arranging his coat before winding the reins around his gloved hands. "And a griffin isn't a horse. They aren't used for simply walking."

A flurry of snow swept out of the stable yard, brushing across the garden, and Ricky turned to see Sky flapping her great wings, taking off into the air with a squawk of effort. He turned back to look at Tinsley, who smiled at him.

"Well, I guess I'll lead the way," said Tinsley, after a prolonged silence.

Ricky didn't reply. He just nodded, once. Tinsley kicked his horse into a walk, and Ricky followed, still wary. Their horses' hooves sounded on the cobblestones of the street that led down to the lower half of the city. Firelight glimmered across the buildings like the sun's rays gleam off a dark sea. Ricky couldn't appreciate the sight. He was a little wary of his journey now. He would have been much more comfortable if Tinsley was reluctant about coming with him, or entirely unwilling, but this friendly demeanor had Ricky on edge. Ricky brought his horse up beside Tinsley's to study his face closely.

"What made you change your mind."

Tinsley shrugged. "Your convincing words, of course."

"I'm serious about this," said Ricky. "About this journey. You're not to- to ruin anything for me."

"Why, I'm insulted you'd even think me capable of doing such a thing."

"I mean it. You're not to order me around, or hinder me in any way. Just give me guidance on where I want to go, and what I want to do."

Tinsley smiled at him, somewhat self-satisfied. "I'll guide you to exactly where you need to be. I promise."

Ricky gritted his teeth. "If you have any little tricks in mind, I-"

"Come along, little man. You're all about faith, aren't you? Spare some for me." He kicked his horse into a trot once they reached the main street. The gates lay ahead, still twisted aside from the miner's entrance. "You needn't have brought half the food you did, by the way. There's inns on the roads. We won't be sleeping under the stars, especially this far north."

Ricky followed him out past the city walls. The river had frozen around the chunks of dam wall that were now scattered about like abstract statues. Tinsley didn't acknowledge them. He crossed the bridge, hearing Ricky following behind him.

"How far are the inns?" asked Ricky.

"They're frequent enough on the Coal Road. Which is the main road from here to the south, by the way, and the one we'll be traveling on." Tinsley glanced at the sky. "We'll stop when evening falls. There's no point in staying outside during the night."

"The night doesn't frighten me." Ricky laughed, bringing his horse up alongside Tinsley's again. "Are you afraid of the dark, rider?"

Tinsley raised an eyebrow at him. "You would be too, if you'd seen the things I've seen."

"I've seen my fair share of the inexplicable."

"What happens in the night here isn't inexplicable. It's just human nature at its worst." Tinsley hummed pensively. "Well, I do suppose you don't have the firmest grip on reality. So maybe normal human nature is inexplicable to you?"

"You're not very funny, you know."

"Oh, yes, and I'll take your opinion on humour very seriously, seeing as you have me in stitches all day every day," came the dry response.

"I'm funny," said Ricky haughtily. "I _know_ I'm funny. I know how to have fun, while all you know how to do is throw tantrums whenever things don't go your way."

Tinsley pushed his tongue against the back of his teeth to stop himself from snapping back. "Careful, little man. An angry guide could lead you right into a whole heap of trouble."

Ricky went quiet at this, realizing that he was quite correct. After a few minutes he said: "What's the closest city?"

"The Temples," said Tinsley, amiable enough. "So we'll be taking the coast roads when we get closer. The nicer inns are off the beaten track, after all."

Ricky gave him a sidelong look. "And you're not tricking me here, are you?"

"No, little man. Not at all."


	13. Statues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Do the gods see us? Will the waters be rising soon? The waters will be rising soon. Find someone or something to cling to.”_ \- Kim Addonizio

The air out at sea was cold and fresh. It stung the Mayor's skin and made his eyes water in a most pleasant way. He compared it to the coldness of the air in the Mines. That wasn't the type of air that was refreshing. It threatened to freeze your skin and shatter it within seconds.

To the left and to the right, mining ships cut through the dark waves, smoke belching from the furnaces. They were magnificent machines, really, in a crude and monstrous way. All creations from the Mines were. It was what they were known for. But these ships were truly something else. Their hulls were made of steel and were metres thick. The doors that lead from above deck to below deck were the same, and could be bolted shut. This was because the ships were designed to sink to the seabed, where water would be pumped out of the hollow in the centre, and the miners could operate on the seafloor. There was more oil and gas there than anywhere else. But the work was lonely, and eerie. Constant creaking from the weight of the ocean overhead. Strange scuttly creatures trapped in with the miners, and the occasional warped fish. The constant ticking of the oxygen monitor bolted to the wall. Now and then there was the sound of singing, a hollow, echoing whistle, repeated over and over. Most said it was whales. Some weren't so sure.

The ships could survive underwater for weeks at a time. Never before had they simply been used to transport and travel. The Mayor remained at the front of the ship, soaking up the pleasant sun. He hadn't felt it in years. The sound of muttering drifted past his ear, but it wasn't the first time he had heard such muttering. People had begun to pray. To pray to the sea for safe passage. He was reluctant to tell them to stop. Out at sea, with nothing around you for miles but empty ocean, it was hard not to feel some reverence for it. Any wide open spaces could make you feel such a way. The sea, the sky, the great white swaths of land in the north. But how does one pray to vast, open nothingness? But they had all seen what Ricky had done, and the Mayor had seen it too. Some things could not be explained. Some things were too frightening to try and explain.

"You've been here for some time."

The Mayor opened his eyes, looking at Manda beside him. "Of course I have. When was the last time any of us had enough sun?"

"Remember when those scholars visited the Mines for a night?" said Manda, folding her arms on the railing in front of them. "And they saw how many people suffered from broken bones, and told us to eat more seafood to absorb calcium better?"

The Mayor laughed. "Yes. The same night you decided that medical knowledge was your calling. Which I suppose it was."

"Well we needed a doctor," she said, "and Snow's End wasn't too keen on sending one. I found those scholars interesting, with those bags of books they lugged around with them. Those were the days."

The Mayor nodded solemnly. "Thank the gods that you did find medical knowledge interesting. You've saved many a life in the past few years."

"Mm. Thank the gods indeed." She spared a look over her shoulder before leaning in closer. "Have you noticed all the praying?"

"Yes. I have."

"And what do you think?"

He raised a bushy brow. "What do _you_ think?"

Manda shrugged, looking out at the dark, wave-encrusted ocean. "I think that Ricky was a very convincing person. Very persuasive."

"He was sure confident in himself."

"And good with words. Words can be dangerous, though. The most dangerous thing there is." She went quiet for a moment. "Do you think they'll make it the month without us?"

"Hm?"

"Ricky and Tinsley." She laughed. "Which one do you think will survive?"

"Oh don't joke about that," said the Mayor with fake sternness. "They weren't _that_ bad. They're just too similar, I think. Similar, but in very different ways."

Manda's nose wrinkled, and she placed a hand over her mouth. "Oh my- Gods, what is that stench?"

The Mayor caught the smell hardly a second later. It truly was putrid; stale beer and grease, rot and decay, blood and dirty water. "For the love of- I've never smelled anything like it."

Manda nodded towards land. "It must be coming from there. Gods, how do people live in that?"

The Mayor looked at where she had pointed. It was a horrible ramshackle city, with a few tall spired buildings on the shore. These buildings were tall and rugged, and seemed incredibly old. Their sides that faced the sea were open; water frothed in the entrances. Smoke and steam rose from the houses and thrown-together buildings around it. Or were they houses? Surely no one could live in such conditions. The sounds of harsh laughter and the occasional scream reached them over the water; the Mayor couldn't tell if the scream was pained or entertained. 

"What is that place?" asked Manda, her voice muffled through her hands.

"The Temples," said the Mayor flatly, his own forearm across his mouth and nose. "I haven't heard much about the place, but from what I've heard, that city fits the boot."

Manda looked at him. "And what have you heard?"

"Unpleasant things, Manda. Very unpleasant things."

* * *

For the past few hours, it had been raining. A heavy, persistent drizzle. Occasionally it had eased up, for perhaps five minutes at a time, but even then there was a light sprinkling of raindrops, the sort that aren't noticeable until your clothing is dusted in a fine layer of them and your hair is stuck to your skin with the wet.

Ricky didn't mind the rain. He hardly seemed to notice it. He seemed entirely content with walking his horse along the sodden dirt track, swaying slightly in his saddle, his head turning from one side to the other to observe the things they passed. Old, ramshackle stone houses. A deer that had fuzz on its budding antlers. It stared at the passing travelers, its mouth closing, its rhythmic chewing of grass halting. Then, having decided them no threat, it ducked its head back into the undergrowth again. Ricky raised his eyebrows at the sight of it.

"What type of horse is that?" he said over his shoulder. "Why are there branches in its head? Are they stuck on? Is it a joke? It couldn't possibly carry someone on its back, either. Its legs are like twigs."

Tinsley, sullen and sodden, glared at the back of Ricky's head. Rainwater dripped from his hair and eyebrows in a steady flow, trickling off the stubble on his chin. "What are you talking about? It's a deer, for crying out loud."

Ricky shrugged, unbothered by the sharp tone. "I've never seen one before."

Tinsley turned his head to look back at the animal. "It's a stag, to be accurate. A male deer. And it's a young one, by the look of it. Soon it'll find a mate, and will fight another stag to the death over her. The fuzz comes off the antlers, you see - antlers, not branches - and they're sharp as spearheads beneath. Blood and gore all over the place."

Ricky was silent for a moment. The drizzle was growing heavier again. It pattered lightly against the leaves of the low-lying bushes. "We all have something we'd fight to the death for."

"Not to bed a woman, though," said Tinsley dryly. "Would you fight to the death for a woman to bed, Ricky?"

"No. They're not what interests me."

"Mm. I think I could have guessed, if a pistol was put to my head over it."

"And what interests you, rider? Men? Women? Both? Neither?" After Tinsley didn't answer, Ricky looked over his shoulder at him with a grin. "Or do you want me to guess?"

"I want you to be quiet."

"I'd almost say neither, you know," continued Ricky, "if it wasn't for the fact you positively reek of frustration."

"I am frustrated. Just not in the way your filthy mind assumes."

"I'm a little frustrated too, you know," said Ricky airily, facing ahead. "I haven't gone so long without sharing someone's bed in.... ever, I think."

"I'm devastated for you."

"Have you ever bedded _anyone_ in your thirty-odd years?" Another sullen silence. "Oh come on, rider. I'm just trying to make conversation."

"I was perfectly fine without conversation."

The drizzle receded as they entered a patch of forest. The leaves created a canopy overhead, casting a murky, greenish tinge on their surroundings, as if underwater. Ricky was almost certain that if he reached out, he'd touch seaweed. He had never seen trees such as this. The trees on Storm's Eye were twisted, gnarled little things, with leaves more grey than green, and rough to touch.

"Do the trees have names-"

"Be quiet," said Tinsley sharply, "and listen out for any movement in the bushes. A cracking twig, a-"

"I know what sounds mean movement," replied Ricky, a little moodily.

"Well you didn't know what a deer was," muttered Tinsley, pushing his wet hair back off his face. "So forgive me for overestimating your naivety."

Ricky shook his head like a dog, the water flying from his hair in glittering droplets. Then he looked around and said: "Are these the Darkwoods?"

"No. They're on the west of the mainland. Northwest. We're on the east." Tinsley glanced up through the leaves above, catching glimpses of the grey sky. "And the Darkwoods are named so for a reason. If you enter without a torch, you're as good as gone. You'll get eaten alive by a bear, or a pack of wolves. Or a mountain lion."

"I don't know what creatures those are."

"Well just hope you never find out."

"Describe them to me."

"No."

"You're not a very good guide."

Tinsley rolled his eyes, before looking at the back of Ricky's head. "I could tell you some of the stories about the people who live in the Darkwoods."

Ricky turned in his saddle, curious. "Oh? Well then, by all means."

"Not many people have seen them, but those who have say that they're ten feet tall and have limbs that hang from their joints like loose flesh. They wear moss or leaves or nothing at all, but they've been in the dark so long their skin is translucent, and you can see their organs moving around inside their bodies. Their eyes are large, much larger than yours or mine, and milky white because they have no need for sight. They don't even blink. Their eyes are dead inside their heads. They rely on their ears, so their ears are larger than their heads, and pointed at the end, and they also rely on touch, so their fingers are long and spindly. They can hear your heartbeat, your blood pulsing through your veins, but they can't tell human apart from animal. So if they hear your heart, they'll just eat you raw."

Ricky scoffed. "A child's tale, surely."

"Most likely. But who knows?" Tinsley shrugged. "I'm certain half the tales about the Darkwoods are just to scare people away. The freshwater springs come from the woods, and if anyone ever managed to gain control over the sources, they'd control this land."

"And has anyone ever found a source?"

"No. The Darkwoods are never-ending, little man. They go on and on and on, farther than the eye can see. Although some rich folk have tried to hire out riders from the Roost to detect the sources by flight."

"And did they agree?"

"No," said Tinsley dismissively. "We're not mercenaries for hire."

They continued on in silence, but for the sound of their horses' hooves against the tightly-packed dirt path, and the rustling of leaves and creaking of branches as the wind passed through them. The air smelt damp and thick with the scent of foliage. The trickling of a stream further on reached the travelers. Soon after hearing it, they came across it. Ricky brought his horse to a halt, observing the shallow running water.

"What?" Tinsley had already crossed the stream, but he reined his horse around. "We'll never get anywhere if you keep stopping to stare at things like a damn child."

Ricky looked at him, raising an eyebrow. Then he climbed down off his horse, ignoring Tinsley's weary groan. "I need to stretch my legs."

"Again? Already?"

"I'm not used to being on horseback for so long." Ricky wandered down the stream, following the flow of water, his coat brushing the wet ground behind him. "I won't go far."

"Ricky, don't walk off around here." Tinsley dismounted gracefully, swinging a leg over the horse's back and dropping lightly to the ground. "Just walk in a few circles here."

Ricky was already clambering through the undergrowth, pushing low-hanging branches aside as he went. With an impatient sigh, Tinsley took after him.

"Ricky. If you want to mess around, at least tie your horse up. It could run off if it got spooked."

"Then go back and tie it up for me," came Ricky's voice, a bit more distant than before.

Tinsley paused as his boot sank into the silty bottom of the stream. He followed its flow with his eyes, watching how it vanished into the trees, the same direction Ricky had gone. He closed his eyes, attempting to stem his irritation before following.

The sound of trickling became louder as he followed the stream. He cast wary glances back at their horses where they stood contentedly nibbling the damp grass on the ground. He walked faster.

"Ricky. Ricky! That's far enough!" He shoved a leafy branch aside, pulling a face at the slimy wetness of it. "Where are you, you wretched little-"

"I'm over here. Careful. There's a lake."

Tinsley followed his voice, and found himself on the muddy shore of a small, silver lake. The drizzle caused thousands of tiny ripples against its glass surface. An island pockmarked by stone sat in the middle of the water. The trees drooped over the shore, leaves brushing the frogspawn gathered under the overhanging branches. Ricky stood a bit further down from Tinsley, staring at the island in the centre of the water.

"What is that?" he asked quietly.

Tinsley followed his gaze. "A stony, miserable island. Thinking of home, are you?"

Ricky ignored the jibe. "It's a face."

"What?"

"There's a face."

Tinsley frowned at him. Then he moved closer, seeing it from Ricky's angle. There was indeed a face. It had dark moss growing over its carved eyes, dripping down its cheeks like tears. It was impossible to tell what age, what gender. Maybe all ages, all genders. Maybe ageless, genderless, just a stone being with a weeping face. Tinsley soon saw what gave it such a look of weeping; the bottom half of its face had separated from the rest, giving its mouth a gaping look.

Ricky shrugged off his coat, handing it to Tinsley, who reflexively took it. "I'll be right back."

"What?" Tinsley held his coat out by his fingertips. "Where are you going?"

Ricky simply walked into the lake, wading in waist-high before kicking out towards the island. He swam smoothly, cutting through the water with ease. Tinsley draped his coat over a thick branch before returning to the lake edge, waiting with his arms folded. The island was further out than it seemed; Ricky was still swimming. Tinsley hated that about water, how it distorted distance and depth. It was a treacherous thing.

Ricky reached the island and hauled himself out of the water, getting to his feet. He distractedly wrung some of the wet out of his shirt as he advanced towards the stone face, the ground soft and springy underfoot. The face was larger up close, much larger. It was taller than he himself was. Ricky felt a sudden reverence for it, for whatever it was built for. Lightly, so lightly, he placed a hand on the rounded end of its nose. It was rough and damp against his skin. The moss that wept from its eyes was soaked through with the rain; when Ricky pressed his fingers into it, it cried real tears.

"Are you done?" called Tinsley.

Ricky ignored him. He began studying the other patches of rock in the ground. They were smooth and shaped, too much so to be natural. Ricky stood back and observed them as a whole. He could see it know; the top of a shoulder, the back of a hand, knuckles and tendons harvesting moss. Ricky looked down at the ground; the statue must lie below. He wondered how large it actually was. He wondered why it had been abandoned.

"Ricky!"

"Shut up!"

He knelt down beside the part of the shoulder he could see. The moss had left familiar patterns on it. He picked the moss away, disturbing some beetles and woodlice. His breathing grew shallow. The moss hadn't grown on the stone, it had grown _in_ the stone, in the grooves carved into its skin. Ricky touched his own shoulder, where similar marks lay. A flat slab of stone with irregular patches of moss caught his eye. He shuffled over on his knees, brushing the moss and dead leaves off the stone. Letters were scratched into the surface, weathered and cracked.

> _A sinister creed from the south  
> _ _The sky weeps for us  
>  The land will fall back to the sea  
> We will rise again_

Ricky touched the words, a crease appearing between his brows. He stood up, still deep in thought. He looked back across the lake at Tinsley, who stood with his arms still folded, radiating impatience in waves. Ricky nodded. Perhaps it was time to return.

He dove back into the water, swimming back to the lake edge. His boots felt mud below them, and he waded the rest of the way out, plucking at his shirt, which had stuck flush to his body with the wet. Tinsley turned his head aside, eyes stuck to the leaves above him.

"Where's my coat?" asked Ricky, a tad breathless.

"Over there," said Tinsley, still not looking at him. "On a branch." He waited until he heard Ricky shrugging it on before facing him again. "What sort of person just jumps into water fully-clothed? Are you insane?"

Ricky raised his brows at him, squeezing water out of his dark hair. "Would you have preferred if I stripped down to nothing?"

"I would have preferred if you didn't go into the water at all," said Tinsley flatly. "Why did you even go in the first place?"

Ricky gestured vaguely at the island. "It's more than a head. It's a whole statue. It goes downwards, into the lake."

Tinsley looked a bit dubious. "Is that so."

"And it has the same markings I do. It must have had something to do with my religion. And there was a message, or a prayer, I'm not sure." Ricky was still staring at the statue's face, his gaze somewhat distant. "Is it true my people used to live on the mainland, as you said?"

"Apparently so. But they dwindled down to nothing once science began to explain all their supposed miracles." Tinsley inclined his head. "Now, if we're done here?"

The forest continued on for another half hour or so. Ricky quite enjoyed it. The damp murky atmosphere comforted him, made him feel at home. He thought of home, for the first time in a long time. Really thought about it. He thought about the people there, and how kind and open they were. He thought about their simple way of life, with no pressure from above, no all-seeing eye watching them. Just good conversation, good faith, and love in the night. He touched the wooden ring around his neck, biting lightly on his lip. He hadn't expected to miss Anton, but all of a sudden he did. He missed having someone to whisper with in the dark, to curl up with when it was cold. Now all he had was cold silences and harsh hands that seemed to only know how to bruise.

"What is that?" asked Tinsley, nodding at the ring around his neck. "Some sort of jewelry?"

"In a way."

"Is all your jewelry made of wood? I wouldn't be surprised. I suppose your leaders wear crowns of twigs."

Ricky threw him an impatient scowl. "Our leaders don't wear crowns at all. And I'm not in the least bit shocked that yours do."

"They don't. Crowns are for monarchs, and monarchs don't exist anymore."

"Anymore? They used to?"

"Yes. Apparently. According to the tales we were told on the Roost. Kings and queens used to rule the land. There were knights and princes and princesses."

"And where did they go?" Ricky raised an eyebrow. "Or do I need to guess?"

Tinsley spared him a vaguely amused look. "You're catching on. Finally." He looked ahead again. "But no, apparently the Council wasn't involved in this one. It was your so-called gods that played the villain. Grew tired of humans trying to play their role, despite having raised them up there in the first place. The stories say they sent forward a warrior from the sea, and they defeated the king in combat. Because the gods were selfish and cruel, and wanted to be idolized above all else."

"That's not true."

"Of course it's not true. None of it is true."

"I meant the selfish and cruel part."

Tinsley rolled his eyes. "The only true part of the story is the existence of monarchs. They were seated somewhere in the south, but no one knows where. Apparently the sea wiped their castles away."

"Rightfully so. The people should look to no one but the gods for leadership."

Tinsley sighed wearily. "You're impossible. You have brain rot."

Ricky tossed his hair back, nose in the air. "You'll see one day, rider. You'll see that I was right all along."

He kicked his horse into a trot, taking off ahead. Tinsley gritted his teeth before doing the same.

* * *

Arcania was busier than it had been in a year. Food stalls were set up on the streets, selling soft warm pastries that smelled of sugar and cinnamon, hot coffee with drops of vanilla and hazelnut, warm apple cider and spiced wine. The braziers were lit in every colour under the sun; bright luminescent blues, glowing greens, reds so intense the ashes looked to be made of crushed rubies. These braziers had been lit in the morning, and would remain lit long past sundown. Classes were cancelled for the day - and unofficially the day after - and so the coffeehouses and bookshops and pubs were packed to the brim. Inauguration was the one day in the year when the Council eased up on their overbearing watchfulness, if only because of the influx of visiting family members coming to see their loved ones join a School. The gates and port of the city were open all day, and the gates into all the Schools were too - apart from the School of Past and Future. Those gates stayed as locked up and oppressively silent as ever.

Fran was getting ready in her apartment, pulling on a pair of black velvet trousers and a matching blouse that she let hang loose down past her hips. She pulled on a pair of shiny black leather boots with a sturdy sole. She had purchased them from the same store the students from the Roost got theirs in, which meant they were the best of the best. Comfy, warm, durable. She had treated herself to them after receiving the highest grade in her class on a history report; ten pages of evidence that disproved the legitimacy of the gods. The evidence had come from Council-issued history books, yet when she had attempted to find supporting facts for this evidence, she had come up with nothing.

"Not too surprising," said Dee from the next room. She was touching up the dark lacquer on her lips. She loved the feeling of it, all smooth and velvety. "They don't want any sort of competition, real or fake."

Fran joined her at the mirror, fixing her hair; she had scraped it back into a lively bun atop her head, and braided the back because she had woken up extra early out of excitement for the day ahead, and had therefore had time. "What do you think they were?"

"What do you mean? Real or fake?" Dee gave her a mocking look, an eyebrow raised. "Do I think the sea is a god? No, I don't." She shrugged. "It's just the sea. Hey, do you want some lipstick?"

Fran lowered her hands from her hair. "Lipstick? I've never actually worn any."

"You might not like it. It's not for everyone. But I think it would suit you. And if you don't like it, we can take it off."

Fran looked at the dark sheen on Dee's lips. "Will it even show up on my skin? You're very pale, and I'm... not pale at all."

"Hmm. Maybe not. But come here and we'll see." Dee placed her fingertips lightly under Fran's chin, guiding her forwards. "Stay really still. I've never applied it on someone else."

"Okay. I'll be still."

"That means no talking," grinned Dee.

"Oh. Sorry."

"Ah! No talking!"

Fran stifled her smile under the mock-stern look on Dee's face. She watched as Dee unscrewed the little lid on the slim glass bottle and drew out a dainty brush. With eyes narrowed in concentration and the tip of her tongue held between her teeth, Dee painted on a layer of lacquer, humming a vague tune as she did so. She waved at it with her hand for a moment to dry it before brushing on another layer. Fran swallowed, feeling her face growing hot. The brush was soft against her lips, but Dee's fingertips on her chin were softer, warmer. When she had finished the second coat Dee brushed a finger lightly around the outside of Fran's lips to tidy it all up. Then she looked Fran in the eye, and paused for what felt like a lifetime, before smiling brightly.

"I think it's really pretty! Looks like a bit more of a gloss on you, though. It can be really annoying when you try to add a second layer and sometimes it can go all crumbly and weird and I _hate_ that. But it turned out fine!"

Fran turned to the mirror, still feeling a little jittery. The dark red that showed on Dee's lips was a glossy shine on Fran's, and it made her feel fresher, more bubbly, although she wondered whether it was just the lipstick, or the fact that it was Dee's lipstick. 

"Yeah, it's not actually too bad," she said.

"It's great," said Dee with a friendly push before moving to the windowsill, on which sat a dark wood jewelry box. The lid was open to show its glittering contents. She touched the two corners of the lid that pointed upwards. "Oh wow. Oh _wow._ Where did you get this?"

Fran glanced at the ring Dee had held up; it was a dull gold, two skeletal hands holding a shining emerald between them. "It was my mom's before she passed, I think. My dad gave it to me before I came here. He gave me most of what's in there."

"Well he certainly isn't shy about being from Gravehearth," joked Dee, holding up a necklace that held a miniature ribcage on a dainty chain, all golden. She ran her finger over the bumps of each rib. "It's pretty amazing, though. What they do. The People of the End."

Fran slipped the ring onto her finger, studying it. "From a distance. Living there can get you down, after a while."

"I'd imagine it would."

"Sometimes I wake up and I'm still surprised to see sunshine through my curtains."

"There's no sun at all? Ever?"

"Nope. Just fog, fog, and more fog."

There was a light knock on the door. Fran went quiet instantly, and Darla went still, eyes wide. They shared an alarmed look.

"Are you expecting anyone?" whispered Dee.

Fran shook her head. She swallowed hard, moving into the small kitchen and towards the hall. Was it a Librarian? Did they find out about the book? It was currently hidden under her mattress, wrapped in cloth, along with the full transcription. At least, she hoped they were both still there. She had been going to check once she got home, but then Dee had come by, and she'd been too distracted to remember. She lingered at the door, chewing on her lip. The lipstick tasted like wax. Another knock on the door, just as firm as before. She supposed that if it was a Librarian, they probably wouldn't wait to knock. Or was it a trap? She closed her eyes and let out a quiet breath. Then she opened the door and stood in shocked silence.

"...Dad?"

"Oh, look at you!" Fear stepped into the hallway and brought her into a warm hug, kissing the top of her head over and over. "My love, my love, my love, you look _wonderful._ So healthy and happy and grown! I can't believe it's only been a year."

Fran didn't reply. The shock of seeing him had left her swallowing sudden tears. She gulped loudly, and Fear drew back, holding her at arm's length.

"Oh Francesca, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I just wanted it to be a surprise." He smiled. "Do I really look so frightful?"

She shook her head, eyes watering. "No. No, dad, I'm so glad to see you. Come in. Tea? I still have some of the type you like. Mint? Peppermint? How was your journey? How's home? How's the others?"

"Good, good, and good, I'm glad to report." He stepped out into the hall very quickly to fetch some of the boxes he'd brought. "I have some gifts."

"Oh dad, you plague me with gifts. You don't _have_ to."

He shuffled inside with the boxes. "I know, I know, I'm probably a little excessive, but I see so many things and they remind me of you."

He followed Fran into the kitchen, placing the few boxes down on the round table near the corner. Fran set a small fire in the far wall, hanging a kettle over it. Then she hurried back and hugged him again, for longer this time. He smiled and rested his chin on her head.

"Is everything okay?"

She nodded. Then she stepped back, holding his hands. "I have a favour to ask. It's quite... big."

"Of course. Anything."

Fran gave his hands a squeeze before vanishing into the next room over. She returned with something bound in cloth, and more than that, she returned with another person. The girl had quite an impish face, pale as fresh paper, and dark hair cut to the top of her neck in a curly bob. Her lips were painted dark, almost dark enough to match her hair. She wore similar clothing to Fran, except with a scholar's cloak over it. She must have been inaugurated into a School the year beforehand. He smiled at her.

"Who's this?"

Fran looked a little nervous, holding the wrapped object in her hands tightly. "This is Dee. She's one of my friends here."

Dee waved her hands either side of her face, as if fanning herself. "I can't believe you're actually here. I think you're so cool. What you do. I think it's great."

Fear laughed. "It can be. But it can also be very sad too. There's two sides to the job, and each is as extreme as the other." He sat down and gave his stiff knees a rub. "What do you do? What School are you in?"

"Storms and Skies," she said eagerly, sitting down too. "I was inaugurated last year. I really hope Fran is in my School. She's so smart. All the professors want her."

Fran pressed her lips in a bashful smile. "That's not exactly true."

"It is! I know it is. I hear them talking about you sometimes."

Fear's attention had been caught by what Fran was holding. He held out a hand towards her, urging her to come closer. "What's that you've got there?"

Fran bit on her lip for a moment. Then she sat down between Dee and Fear, a sudden movement, as if she had worked up the courage to finally confront a problem, and couldn't turn away now. "Dad... You know how you always used to tell me how important old things are? How our history is what we owe everything to? And how we shouldn't forget anything, no matter how easy it might be?"

Fear nodded, eyeing the object she was untying the twine on. "I do."

Fran flattened the cloth either side before turning the book towards Fear. "I transcribed a book. It's not forbidden, but... but it probably would be. If it was known about."

Fear guided the book towards him, looking down through his half-moon glasses at the title; _Lightning and How to Use It._ "...This is very dangerous, Francesca. A very dangerous thing to do. I'm a little surprised you'd do this."

"Dad, they _burn_ them here," she whispered, and Dee nodded frantically. "They burn forbidden books. I'm just trying to save one. At least one."

Fear gave her a stern look. "Where did you find the original."

She glanced away. "I... just found it."

He looked at the book again. He opened it to a random page; he had to admit, it was transcribed wonderfully. The diagrams were neat and clear. "I don't support this, Francesca. If you're caught with this..."

"I won't be," she said. "I want you to bring it home with you."

"To Gravehearth?"

"Yes. Our home isn't under Council jurisdiction-"

"For now, it's not," he replied a little sharply. "And I don't want to give them any reason to enter the city. Relations have been tense recently. And with what happened in Snow's End, it's gotten worse. We had a visit from some Councillors only a few days ago. They watch us as much as they can. If they get even the slightest chance to come through our gates-"

"-they'll find much more than this book," said Fran, raising her eyebrows matter-of-factly. "I know that those statues shouldn't be there. None of them. Not the holy ones, not the other ones either. And-"

"That's enough, Francesca," he snapped. Fran went quiet instantly. "This is a terrible risk for you to take. And on the day of your inauguration! I'm astounded."

The kettle began whistling weakly, tremulous. Dee whispered that she'd make the tea before getting up and crossing the room to do so. Fran laced her fingers on the table.

"I'm sorry, dad. I just... I thought that maybe..."

"Francesca." He placed a hand on hers, a stern look still on his face, but not as angry as before. "I'll take it. I'll take it home and keep it safe. But promise me you won't try anything so risky again. If anything happened to you..." He swallowed. "I'd go to war for you, Fran. I would. If I heard that a Councillor even looked at you askew I'd be at these city walls within the hour, with all of Gravehearth behind me. You know that."

She nodded, a little shamefaced. "I know."

Fear nodded too. Then he wrapped the book back up and tied it with the piece of twine. He looked up as Dee placed his tea down in front of him in a shiny copper mug. "Thank you."

She hesitated. "I'm sorry. I have to say it. I gave the book to Fran to transcribe. I was told to."

"Dee-"

"Who told you to?" asked Fear, his grey brows drawing into a frown. "And why?"

Dee shook her head, her fingers knotting together at her waist. "I can't tell you that. I swore not to. But I promise I won't ask her to do it again."

Fear got to his feet, straightening up. "You might promise, but the person who told you to ask Fran to do this hasn't promised. Who is it?"

"I can't," she squeaked.

"Dad, it's fine." Fran got to her feet too, placing a hand on his arm. "Honestly. I won't do it again. I promise." She touched the ring on her finger. "I swear on mom I won't do it again."

Fear looked at the ring, at the glimmering emerald in the centre. He drew it towards him. His eyes began to glimmer too. Then he laughed, a wry sound. "The funniest thing is that your mom would've done the exact same thing you did. She was always one for trouble." He gave her hand a squeeze. "And that's what got her in the end, Fran. You have to understand that."

"I do. I'm sorry."

Fear nodded. "I'll bring the book to the Eyes. Two of them can leave now."

Dee gasped. "Oh my. Can I meet one?"

"Yes, you can. But they're sworn to silence, so there won't be much conversation."

He let the two girls go ahead of him. Fran was glowing with excitement. Inauguration was hardly half an hour away, and she had dreamed her whole life of getting that scholar's cloak tied around her neck. Fear paused on the way down the stairs, letting them go on ahead. Out the window, he could see right through the buildings to the bright beacon atop Greatlight. The sight stung his heart. He looked down at the book Fran had given him, and it felt like it was burning through the cloth. He looked back at the building that was a prison in all but name. Then he steeled himself and moved on. He couldn't be sad on Francesca's inauguration. Her mother would've killed him if she knew.

* * *

The inn was surprisingly quiet. Tinsley supposed it was for multiple reasons. Firstly, a Council delegation was most likely on its way north, and no one wanted to be in the path of one of those. Secondly, fuel from the Mines was at a standstill, so tradesmen were scarce. Lastly, travel wasn't safe so close to the Temples. Tinsley cast a quick glance at Ricky, making sure his markings were still covered, sleeves rolled down and shirt laced properly at the neck. It was obviously irritating Ricky to have his clothing so tight against his skin. He pulled at the neckline of his shirt frequently, and had been doing so since Tinsley had forcibly tied it for him.

"It's not that annoying," said Tinsley flatly. They were seated at a table in the corner of the inn, far from any windows. "Stop being dramatic."

"I'm roasting in here," muttered Ricky, throwing him a scowl. "No wonder you're so moody all the time, if your clothes are so uncomfortable."

"I can promise you that my clothes are infinitely more comfortable than your ragged sackcloth," said Tinsley sharply.

"It's not sackcloth."

"It is compared to what I wear."

"Oh sorry, I forgot you're better than me in every possible way."

Tinsley inclined his head. "Well don't forget again."

Ricky sat back against his chair with his arms folded and brows drawn together. The innkeeper was on her way over. She was a small wiry woman, with her apron string wrapped twice around her waist. She held in a plate in each hand, and set them down in front of each man with a smile.

"Don't get many travelers up here these days," she said, straightening back up with her hands on her hips. "With what's happened in Snow's End and all."

Tinsley was going to ignore her, until he saw that Ricky was about to speak, and who knew what nonsense _he_ was going to say. Tinsley looked at her and said: "Wild times up north."

She looked him over, a little warily. "And what's got a rider so far from home, if I may ask?"

"I'm actually on my way home. Was up in Snow's End for some trade negotiations. Left only days before the rebellion."

Ricky was giving him a suspicious look, already tucking into his dinner. The innkeeper seemed hesitant to leave. She was bored, and nosy. A dangerous combination.

"I didn't see no griffin," she said, still studying Tinsley. "Haven't seen one for a long time."

"They're not very sociable," said Tinsley, pointedly. "They don't appreciate people poking and prodding them for entertainment. Now thank you for the meal."

Ricky saw her affronted face, and decided to swiftly change the subject. "We saw a strange statue on the way here. In the middle of some woodland." He ignored Tinsley's warning look. "It seemed very old."

"Oh, well it is very old," said the innkeeper with a wise nod of her head.

Ricky raised his brows. "Do you know much about it? I'm very curious."

"Ricky," muttered Tinsley, eyes narrowing. "No."

"There's a bit of a tale to it, I have to say," said the innkeeper. "How about I fetch you a drink and then tell you what I can remember?"

Ricky smiled. "I'd like that a lot. Wine, thank you."

She raised an eyebrow at Tinsley. "You want something?"

Tinsley poked at his food. "Some sort of tea would suffice."

The innkeeper returned swiftly with a small cup of steaming tea, an empty cup, and a flagon of wine. She seemed eager to tell her tale. Telling stories was her favourite pastime, and one of the main reasons she had even set up an inn in the first place. So she sat at the head of the table between a curious Ricky and a disgruntled Tinsley, and began.

"Now, about thirty years back, this land was still a holy land. Lots of holy folk, worshiping the sea and the like. Not that they teach that nowadays. Nowadays it might as well have never existed, but I grew up my whole life here, and I remember. There were a few holy sites around, some- some lakes and the like. Seawater. And there were statues too, most likely one of them was the one you saw."

"Are the statues of the gods?" said Ricky, wincing as Tinsley kicked his shin sharply under the table.

"No, not them," said the innkeeper, seeming a little uncomfortable with his blunt words. "They made statues of the high priests and priestesses and the like. To worship them when they were gone. Big statues, larger than life. But the Council decided they didn't like that." She leaned in closer, speaking quietly. "We call it the Year's Hunt, because it lasted a year, winter to winter. The holy folk were driven out of their homes, slaughtered in the street. Holy sites were burnt and buried and destroyed. They fled north, almost a hundred thousand folks. But upon reaching the Temples they received word from Snow's End that they wouldn't help them. They wouldn't grant them aid or refuge. The Snow's End lords and ladies were frightened of the Council, wanted to keep them at a distance. So half the holy folk stayed in the Temples to try and talk with the Council. A high priestess, Nerisei, stayed there to lead them, and she's still there today. But the other half fled onward. They were hunted every step of the way. Many died of hunger, exhaustion, and as they got further north, cold. Some say you can still come across a body every now and then, frozen in the snow, been frozen since they died. But some folks reached Snow's End, and the lords and ladies kept their word. The gates stayed closed. Not a soul responded to the cries from beyond the walls. The Council was close behind, you see. Not a week, or a day. Not even an hour. So close they could hear the thunder of their horses' hooves. So the high priests and priestess - those few that remained - ordered their people to flee to the sea. They raided the port, took the boats, sailed east as the Council crested the hill behind them." She suddenly sat back, slapping the table. "And apparently that's where they remain today! Out on some islands, isolated from everyone. Not many left, they say. Apparently near a hundred thousand began the Hunt, and barely a thousand made it out the other side alive. Or so the stories say. Most likely they all drowned."

Ricky didn't respond. His face had gone blank with shock, his eyes round and unblinking. Tinsley cleared his throat, giving the innkeeper a nod.

"Interesting tale. Where did you hear all that?"

"Word of mouth."

"So not very likely to be accurate then," said Tinsley, giving Ricky a long look. "Perhaps embellished a little. Or a lot."

"Only a little," said the innkeeper, getting to her feet. "My own ma remembers. She seen them all go past, she says, like a flood of terror through the streets. Said she never seen any people look so scared in all her life. Screaming, crying, with babies and dogs and old ones-"

"That's enough," said Tinsley sharply. "Thank you."

She pulled a face at his icy dismissal, but turned away. Another few travelers had entered, and were looking for a table and beds. Tinsley began eating, ignoring the pot of gravy that sat in front of him. He could see Ricky's hands where they rested either side of his plate, holding his knife and fork, limp. He already knew what was coming, so decided to speak first.

"Ricky," he began, exasperated, "you can't trust innkeepers. They'd make up a story for anyone. They just want to be listened to."

Ricky shook his head, still stunned. "Hardly a thousand made it."

"Yes, Ricky, and there's barely a hundred people on your island. So-"

"She said islands. Multiple." Ricky looked at him, his eyes still wide in shock. "And there's many islands. I saw them on the maps. There's more than Storm's Eye."

"Ricky, come on."

"Where does this Council live."

Tinsley raised an eyebrow at the dark tone. "They're seated in Arcania. And you have absolutely no chance at even getting within a mile of them. So forget about it."

He went back to his meal, determined to leave the budding conversation behind. Ricky, of course, didn't concede.

"What did the Council do to _your_ home?" he said, pushing the vegetables around his plate. "Seems to me that there's no reason not to believe the story just told."

Tinsley stopped eating. He looked at Ricky from under his brows. "I'm not discussing my home with you. Now shut up and eat."

Ricky ignored the order. "There was a message beside the statue. It said 'we will rise again'. Maybe it was a message for the future. A message for me."

"You are not the be-all and end-all of the entire universe, little man. It was most likely the ramblings of some poor person driven mad with hope. That's all hope is good for. Driving you insane."

Ricky pushed his fork under some potato, bringing it to his mouth. "Maybe the seas will rise again. And it won't spare you. Or anyone like you." He put the food into his mouth with a righteous air.

"I don't care," said Tinsley flatly. "I'm not afraid of the sea."

"Yes you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are. Everyone is.” Ricky shrugged, prodding at the food on his plate. “You don't know true weakness until you're in the grip of the sea. That's when you know true helplessness, true desperation. You can beg for mercy, but the gods won't listen. Death is nothing to them."

Tinsley gave him a long look from over his steaming cup. “That’s the secret to any great faith, isn’t it? Terror.”

“No,” said Ricky, a little defensively. “If you have faith, you have nothing to be afraid of.”

“Exactly,” said Tinsley, moving his cup out of the way of his mouth with a lazy swing of his arm. “It doesn’t give you much of a choice. Have faith, and you’re safe. Don’t have faith, and you’ll die. Explain to me how that’s fair.”

Ricky had stopped prodding his food; the tip of his knife had sank right into the meat on his plate. “Maybe if you don’t have faith, you don’t deserve fairness.”

“Is that truly how you see it?” Tinsley laughed dryly. “Maybe your religion deserved to be wiped out.”

Ricky’s jaw set. “Tens of thousands of my people died-”

“-if that tale is anywhere near true,” replied Tinsley, sitting back and hanging an elbow over his chair, "which I highly doubt. Anyway, I've seen more death than that. Faith doesn’t repay you with anything. It’s a waste of time and energy.”

“And what did you have faith in, if not the gods?”

“Myself.”

“Well that explains that,” said Ricky icily. “You’re not a god.”

Tinsley held his gaze, but he didn’t seem to be focused. “I was. For a time.” He looked away and took a mouthful of his drink. “It wasn’t all what it’s cracked up to be.”

Ricky paused with a slice of pork halfway to his mouth. “What are you talking about? Every word from your mouth is blasphemy.”

“Well tell me, little man. What makes a god? Worship? Obedience? Influence over those who follow them? I had all of it. I had all of it and more.”

“I’ve heard enough,” said Ricky, finally placing the pork in his mouth and chewing. “You’re just a man. A particularly loudmouthed one.”

“What’s the population on Storm’s Eye? A couple of hundred? Where I’m from there’s hundreds of thousands. I had more followers than your so-called gods do.”

Ricky inclined his head, arching a dark eyebrow. “Gods don’t have to rely on followers to be gods. And that is why you’re not a god. Now stop trying to irritate me.” He shoveled more food into his mouth, hurrying to eat it while it was still warm. “And more than that, gods are never defeated and paraded through the streets by their enemies.”

Tinsley swallowed his tea, but other than that, remained still. “...How do you know those things.”

“Hm?” Ricky raised his brows, eyes large and innocent. “What things?”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve made some reference to- to my past. Who told you about me?”

Ricky debated replying. Then he just smiled, but it was distracted. His eyes were watching something else. “It’s as I told you before. The gods show me all.”

Tinsley followed his gaze, seeing the group of travelers sitting across the room. One was a particularly good-looking man, who was stealing sly glances at Ricky, face reddening. Tinsley sighed impatiently, turning back around to find Ricky still smiling across the room.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" replied Ricky, absent-minded. He might as well have been twisting a lock of hair around his finger.

"Don't sleep with him."

"Why not?"

"Your markings," said Tinsley, icy quiet. "I am deadly serious about not showing them to anyone."

Ricky shrugged. "I can keep my shirt on."

Tinsley sat back, arms folded. "I thought you were all about making it to the south. You'll throw it aside for... what, exactly?"

Ricky scowled at him. Then he pouted slightly in defeat, slumping back in his chair. "Fine."

"Good." Tinsley pushed his plate away. "I'm done. And I'm tired. I want to go to bed."

Ricky inclined his head. "Then go."

"I don't trust you to keep your hands to yourself." Tinsley stood up, pushing his chair back. "Come on. I have the key."

Ricky raised his brows at him. "Surely we're not sharing a room."

Tinsley pulled a face at this. "Don't be ridiculous. They're just adjoined."

Ricky stood up, still mildly wary. "I see."

Tinsley left a few coins on the table. "Please don't insult me by acting as if I'd be in any way inclined to touch you." Then he turned away, crossing the room towards the far door, and a stairs visible beyond. Ricky followed.

Their boots were loud on the wooden steps leading up to the candlelit second floor. Tinsley located the correct door, unlocking it with the dainty iron key he'd been given by the innkeeper. Then he stood back and swept a hand towards the doorway.

"In you go, little man."

Ricky narrowed his eyes at him before going inside. It was a simple room, with a sturdy single bed and a bath with a wooden screen surrounding it. The screen wasn’t heavily decorated; it was a deep brown wood, with black lines painted on it to make it seem carved and therefore thicker than it was. The bath was copper and shiny. A few candles were lit; one beside the bed, a few on the walls. They made the room quite cozy. Ricky crossed to the far door and opened it. There was a matching room within, although somewhat smaller, and with no bath. He turned around.

"I want the bigger room."

Tinsley ignored him, closing the door and locking it before pocketing the key. He unbuckled the weapons belt from around his waist, laying it on the bed. Ricky didn't like the current setup. He felt as if he was being somewhat held hostage by having no exit of his own.

"I want this room," he said, louder than before.

Tinsley threw him a withering look. "And why is that."

Ricky glanced around. Then he pointed at the bath. "I want to have a bath."

Tinsley held his gaze, eyes narrowing slightly. "...Then go ahead and have one. A quick one."

"I don't take quick baths. So you might as well just stay in the small room."

"There's a screen."

"I don't want the screen."

"You'll have a bath and you'll use the screen," said Tinsley fiercely. "And I'll be staying in this damn room. Got it?"

Ricky swallowed hard, feeling prickles down the back of his neck. Tinsley was up to something, he was certain of it now. There were definitely enough single rooms in this inn to have had a separate room each. But adjoining, with one exit? Ricky eyed him with caution. Tinsley eyed him right back.

"Then I'd best go down and ask for hot water," said Ricky.

To his surprise, Tinsley nodded. "Yes. You better."

He went to the door, took the key from his pocket, and unlocked it. He stepped aside to let Ricky through. Only when Ricky had gone down the corridor did he call after him.

"Hey, Ricky." He spoke in a cool tone. "Sky is outside. She doesn't sleep much at night. Tends to prowl around."

Ricky didn't reply for a moment. "Okay."

"Just be careful. Best not to stray out the door."

"I get it."

Tinsley watched him go off down the corridor. Then he stepped back into the room and closed the door over.

It wasn't long before the bath was full of steaming water. The screen remained in front of it, but Ricky was sure trying his very best to be as annoying as humanly possible. He hummed loudly to himself, not a tune in his head. He asked Tinsley mundane, irritating questions. He had strewn his clothes about from behind the screen. Tinsley lay on his bed, shoulders propped against the headboard, sliding a small whetstone against the edges of his dagger, steadily sharpening it. He appreciated the scraping sounds, _schlick schlick schlick,_ they drowned out the sound of water swilling in the bath behind the screen. Tinsley glared in the bath’s general direction; on the floor to the right of the screen was Ricky’s ugly dark shirt, smelling of saltwater and sand. The only thing the priest had bothered to hang up was his coat, and it was so thick it prevented any other coat being comfortably hung beside it. Tinsley had had to get up and cross the room and pick up his own coat off the ground three times before he gave up and just draped it across the chair beside his bed. It was probably for the best. He didn’t want his own clothing to start smelling of Ricky. Maybe he should suggest to the priest to wash his salty clothes alongside himself.

“Are you still sharpening that thing?”

Tinsley scowled at the voice. He continued pushing the whetstone along the side of the dagger’s blade. “Well, I want it to be sharp, don’t I?”

“Not too sharp, right? It won’t do its job properly then.” A calm swishing of water; a few splashes as it made its way over the edge of the bath and to the wood floor. “The cleaner a cut, the easier it is to heal. That's why our ceremonial knives are so sharp. So would it not be better to have a bit of bluntness to your weapons, if you really want to cause harm?”

Tinsley already knew all this, but he also knew that he didn't strike to harm. He struck to kill immediately, and a sharp knife was perfect for slitting a throat, neat and quick. “You have a devious mind, little man, but I didn’t ask for your advice.”

A pause, but for lapping water. “You’re an incredibly unlikable person.”

“I didn’t ask you to like me either.”

This got a dry laugh. Then the sound of splashing grew louder, followed by the sound of wet feet on the floor. Tinsley eyed the screen, and two hands appeared over the top, clenched into fists and turned back to bare their tattooed wrists as Ricky stretched languorously. Tinsley swallowed, going back to his sharpening with twice the vigor. He’d whittle it away to nothing if he wasn’t careful.

As casual as if going for an afternoon stroll, Ricky walked out from behind the screen. He was naked as the day he was born. Tinsley’s eyes flickered to him, catching a glimpse of the intricate markings on his chest and shoulders and arms, and wet skin that shone in the candlelight as if it had been oiled, and coarse dark hair that started thin below the navel and grew thicker as it ran downwards, and then Tinsley’s head snapped back around to stare directly and unwaveringly at the far wall as he said: “Clothes. Your clothes. Put on your clothes.”

“I’m getting my towel,” came the amused reply.

“You should have brought it over.”

“I forgot it.” A laugh. “You’re bright as a berry. Is nudity a big deal where you’re from?”

“Nudity is a big deal in most places,” said Tinsley sharply, swinging his legs around to sit on his bed so that his back was to Ricky.

“Why? I’m not being rude.”

“You are!”

“But how? Just by showing my skin?”

“Cut the naive act,” snapped Tinsley over his shoulder. “I don’t find it cute. Go back to your own room.”

“I’m not naive,” said Ricky, defensive. “ _You’re_ the naive one. You’re acting like an idiot just because I’m not buttoned up head-to-toe like you always are.”

“Are you still naked?”

“Yes!”

“Put on your clothes!”

“How about you sit in the corner and face the wall if I terrify you so much.” A scoff. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Just- Just put on your fucking towel.”

“Fine!” There was a pause and the sound of the towel rustling. “Why do you even need to wear all those clothes? Buttoned up to the neck all day every day.”

“Because it’s just what I wear.”

“Why?" Ricky looked Tinsley over. He preferred him without the coat. The dark jumper he wore was made of a fitted material; although high-necked and long-sleeved, it showed the shape of a surprisingly fit body below. Ricky took a lock of wet hair in his mouth, sucking it absent-mindedly as he continued his observations. "Are you shy?”

“No.” Tinsley got to his feet, still avoiding looking at the other man. “I get... cold.”

Ricky sat at the end of Tinsley's bed, entirely innocent. “Really? Are you from somewhere warm or something? It’s ten times colder where I’m from than it is here.”

Tinsley spared him a sidelong look, and there was a strange lull. "I'm going downstairs to ask for wine."

Ricky brightened. "Get two glasses, will you?"

"I'll think about it."

Tinsley closed the door and locked it after him, throwing his eyes to the ceiling before taking off down the corridor at a fierce pace. He stopped abruptly at the window and peered down into the yard - he could see Sky's beak poking out of the stable's entrance, nudging at some stray straw. It wasn't too late, he supposed. It wasn't too late to just go outside and hop on Sky and take off and never have to see Ricky again. But no, he had told Ricky he'd get him where he needed to be, and he was a man of his word. People would be safer with a man like Ricky out of the picture. Tinsley would lead him to the nearest harbour and sit him in a boat and push him back off towards his home. He'd chase him all the way there on Sky if he had to, nipping at his heels with every step. The way Ricky spoke was dangerous, and the look in his eyes when he spoke was even more so. He was nothing but trouble. Fortunately, he was extremely gullible too.

"One cup or two?" asked the innkeeper.

Tinsley mentally sighed. "Two."

Ricky seemed surprised at the fact he had brought two cups. He sat up on the chair that he had been draped across. He had swapped the towel for his trousers, but still hadn't bothered with a shirt. "Pour one for me."

Tinsley poured his own. "You can do that yourself." He set the flagon down. "And you're sitting on my coat."

"Not _on_ your coat. Just near it."

Tinsley crossed towards him and roughly yanked the coat out from behind him. "Don't push your luck with me. I mean it."

Ricky smiled slyly, his gaze running over Tinsley as the man crossed back to his bed and threw the coat down onto it. "Why don't you like me still."

Tinsley sat down on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees and his gloved hands holding the cup between them. "Get your wine and go to your own room."

Ricky cocked his head aside, perfectly coy. He got to his feet and went to the small table beside the door where the flagon and cup rested. He poured himself a generous amount. "I thought you weren't one for wine."

Tinsley looked at the deep red liquid in his own cup. "I haven't been. For a while."

"And what made you want something you don't usually have?"

Tinsley blinked, as if in shock. Then he lifted his head to look at Ricky, who was making a faint effort to hide his amused smile. "...Get out."

"Why? I haven't done anything."

"Get out, Ricky! Just go!"

Ricky raised his brows at the sudden furious outburst. "Right. Fine. Relax."

Tinsley didn't relax, not until Ricky had shut the door that separated them. Then he searched out his tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette. He smoked it quickly, lying back on his bed, eyes on the ceiling. The night was one of fitful sleep and twisted sheets. He was still awake when dawn peered through the curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright lads here we go 👏👏👏


	14. Interesting Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You kiss me with your mouth wide open like you’re not afraid of swallowing poison. I taste the good and bad in you and want them both. We call this bravery.”_ \- Anita Ofokansi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ricky spends the majority of this chapter trying to hit on Tinsley and I think that's great for him

It was near midnight, and the north moon was round and full in the sky, fattened with the dreams of those who slept below. Lucy wasn’t one of them. She hadn’t had an unbroken night’s sleep since Ricky had left those few weeks ago. She worried for him, prayed for him, as if he was her own. At times, she wished he hadn’t left, although she knew he had had to. He had always been a little different from the rest; a little wilder, a little more unsettled. The calling to leave had been in his head from the moment he had first drawn breath. She was certain of this.

The air was cool and fresh from the cloudless skies, blowing loose particles of sand into her face. She wrapped her scarf around her mouth and nose as she descended the stony steps to the west beach. The same beach that rider had washed up on, and the same on Ricky had departed from. She had been shocked to see a rider again; she hadn’t seen one since her youth, and remembered them only as being as cold and remote as the sky they spent so much time in. Lucy had never understood the appeal of the sky. It was vast and empty, and unlovable because of it. At least the sea churned and swelled with life. Or did it? She knew that according to some, the sea and the sky were each as empty as the other. She stopped her slow descent to the beach, staring out at the endless black of the sea to where the stars began. She closed her eyes and listened to the gentle swishing of the waves against the land. It was a sound that instilled peace in all, faithful or faithless. Something malicious or unkind couldn’t possibly do such a thing. The sea destroyed and the sea created. It posed no harm to those who were harmless, and crushed those who deserved to be crushed. That was what made a true god; the ability to distinguish good from evil as clearly as black from white, and the capability to punish accordingly.

In one arm Lucy held the ancient text, one of the few surviving copies. Bound in cracked leather and splitting rope, it would have to be redone soon. But that was just another task to add to an endless list. Her husband was not much help regarding this list. If it wasn’t for the fact that he kept her pleased in bed, she wondered if she’d have any use for him at all.

Only when Lucy had reached the sand did she spy the flickering firelight within a small cave in the cliff she had just descended. Curious, she moved through the sand towards it, head ducked forwards and eyes squinting. For a small moment, she was hopeful that Ricky may have returned, but once she saw who it was, she saddened.

“Anton, what has you out here at such a time?”

The sandy-haired head snapped up in surprise, and he scrambled to his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come over.”

“Don’t worry.” She softly cupped his face, looking into his pale eyes. “You can’t sleep?”

He shook his head. “No. Not properly, since Ricky left.”

“That makes two of us. He was a presence indeed.”

Anton nodded, somewhat glum. “I wish he’d come back.”

“Is that why you’re out here?”

A small shrug. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s a bit obvious he won’t be back for a while.”

“It’s understandable to miss him, Anton. Especially due to what you had with him.”

Anton was quiet for a moment. “I think I loved him enough to marry him. I offered him such before he left. I don’t think he felt the same.”

“Oh, come here.” Lucy kissed him softly on both cheeks before drawing him into an embrace. “We both know what Ricky is like. Excitable. Always looking outward, forward. He might settle once he returns. Seeing the world can make a person want nothing more than to find a comfortable corner of that world and stay in it until the end of their days.”

“I know. But until then, I’ll miss him. I’ll miss him a lot, I think.”

“Me too.”

Another small silence. “Do you think he might fall in love with someone else out there?”

“I highly doubt it. The mainland is not a loving place, especially for people like us.” Lucy glanced around the small cave; the fire was warm and inviting, the smoke a comforting smell, and there were blankets in a bundle where Anton had first been sitting. “Are you intending to sit here all night?”

He nodded, still seeming a little down. Lucy smiled at him.

“I might share your fire. I came down to read some of the text. I find it comforting, when I feel overwhelmed.”

“Of course. Yes.” He sat down and spread the blankets out, smiling as she sat down beside him. “Would you mind reading aloud? My mom used to read to me before I fell asleep.”

Lucy nodded, and she patted her lap for him to lay his head on. When he had, she lightly brushed her fingers through his hair, soothing. “Did you have a favourite passage?”

“I liked the one about how the ocean connects us all,” he murmured, eyes closed.

Lucy quickly located the correct page. She cleared her throat and began reading in a soft, calm voice, just audible over the waves brushing against the sand. “The ocean is what connects us, one to another. We all look upon the same sea, we all touch the same waves, and through them we touch each other. The ocean allows us to live together, and when it rises again we will die together too. The gods do not choose one above the other, as we are not worthy of their contemplation. We are mere children, grasping their watery hands, trusting them to lead us through eternal uncertainty, across unknown lands, to ends that are much too far away for us to be able to see. The gods only see what must be done, and we with true faith will understand this. The day the seas rise, we shall sing and dance and drown, and the gods will take us from the land just as they had given us to it long ago. Those who resist will be swept away by the Prophet, the Warrior, the Reckoning…” Her quiet, murmured voice floated across the waves and into the shadows.

* * *

Ricky crested the small green hill first, and he smiled widely at the sight before him. A small village with a dock, and beyond that, wide open ocean. It made his heart sing. He took a deep breath, as deep as he could manage, taking in the scent of salt and fresh air, listening to the soft sound of waves. This sound was soon disturbed as the hooves of Tinsley's horse passed by him. Tinsley was not as delighted to see the sea. He had a more important mission on his mind. He had to find someone who would be willing to give him a boat, and then he had to send Ricky off in it. A simple task, he was sure.

There was a painted shop at the far end of the docks, its window filled with trinkets. Feathered netted circles hung from strings, gleaming with beads, and various styles of glasswork were laid along the sill, tall and short and slim and fat and in all the colours of all the jewels in the world. There were some pieces of pottery - a studded jar that was mounted on matching curled legs but was missing its lid, and half a statue in a sweeping dress, its head and left shoulder smashed away. Tinsley studied it all with interest, his pointed nose almost pressed to the glass. He heard Ricky mutter: “Don’t be an idiot.”

“I assume you’re talking to me?”

“This is seabed junk.” Ricky stood at his shoulder, disapproving. “You could dive off the end of that dock and find yourself ten times the treasures in five minutes. If it isn’t all already in this shop.”

“Well then run along and have a nice swim,” said Tinsley, straightening up from the window, “and I’ll stay nice and dry up here and do what I need to do. So go on. Off you go.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I’d have to take my clothes off, and it wouldn’t be good if you had a breakdown in public,” said Ricky with mock-sincerity. Then he smiled, and it was a smile handsome in its appearance and ugly in its intention. “Do you really not take off your clothes at all? What about when you bathe?” The smile dropped, and his face grew almost saintly in its fake innocence, his voice breathy, his hands clasped in front of his chest. “Oh, and what about when you make love? Or are you _so_ pure that you haven’t let anyone taint you in such a way?”

Tinsley didn’t laugh. His eyes were serious. “I suppose you can think about those things in your own time.” Then he stepped around him and shoved open the shop door.

The bell tinkled above the entrance, but no shopkeeper appeared behind the battered wooden counter with its crumbling till, placed at the far end of the long room. On both walls, to the left and to the right, were shelves swamped with what Ricky had rightly deemed junk. Broken plates, chipped teacups, snapped necklaces, a painting in a dull gold frame, the canvas of which was growing mould. In the centre of the room was a long table, and on this were various tablecloths woven with designs that would have been beautiful, if the cloths had ever had a wash. On these cloths were candlesticks that needed a polish (some with their wax candles still attached, although they were scratched and pockmarked beyond use, as if some little creatures had bitten chunks out of them), lamps with holes in their grimy glass shades, empty wine bottles with faded labels, and any other object that was too tall to fit on the shelves on the walls. Tinsley stuck to the right of this table, and Ricky to the left, and they observed the shelves on the walls and each other across the centre table, and Tinsley hated the cruel curve of a smile now on Ricky’s face. He turned his head away to scowl at a shelf, stopping to pick up a single cufflink. It was a grimy gold, and had a gap in it, where a small jewel was most likely set for a time. He turned to face Ricky across the table, showing him the trinket.

“You don’t think they have the set here, no?” He arched an eyebrow. “Maybe in the back?”

Ricky spared a small smile, but otherwise didn’t reply. He picked up a hairbrush missing half its bristles, tossing it lightly so that the handle landed neat and steady in his palm again before waving it at Tinsley. “Might get this for you. I know you’re all about birds, but your hair doesn’t have to look like a nest.”

Tinsley stared at him. "My hair doesn't look like a nest."

"Your hair is the only fun thing about you," said Ricky, dropping the brush back onto the table and moving on.

Tinsley sidled up to a grimy mirror, eyeing himself in it. He supposed his hair was a tad on the untidy side, but he wouldn't call it a _nest_. Back on the Roost he might have been scolded for it. And for his stubble too. He rubbed a gloved hand over his mouth, feeling the bristles on his chin and above his lips. Then he ran his fingers through his hair a few times, scowling at the stubborn strand that tended to enjoy separating from the rest and hanging forwards over his forehead. He glanced about for a scissors, or a knife.

"What are you doing?"

Tinsley whipped around to glare at Ricky. "Nothing. Shut up."

Ricky just smiled and turned away. He continued examining the bits and pieces on the shelves, wandering back down towards Tinsley. "You don't have to worry about it. You have the face to carry it off."

Tinsley had turned back to the mirror. He thoughtfully touched the collar on his coat where it was buttoned in place across his neck, speaking distractedly. "What?"

Ricky stopped beside him, smiling at the slightly alarmed look Tinsley was giving him. "You're a very handsome man. I know a few people back home who would eat you right up." He gave him a playful poke in the ribs. "Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And everything in between, I might add."

Tinsley stared at him in silence for another moment. "Don't touch me again."

"It was just a little touch. Am I not even allowed a little one?"

"You're really beginning to annoy me."

"And you me."

Tinsley put space between them again, but he could feel Ricky's eyes boring into his back with each step he took. "Lust is a big part of your religion, isn't it."

"I suppose. Perhaps a bit more than just lust. We believe in loving each other in whatever way we want, including and not including physical."

"And yet you're here to start a war with non-believers," said Tinsley, picking up what appeared to be a cracked scabbard. "Does your 'love' not extend to them?"

Ricky looked him over, taking his time with it. "Perhaps to some."

Tinsley caught the tail-end of Ricky's lingering look. "No."

"No what?"

"No," repeated Tinsley, with more force this time. His gaze was hard and unwavering. "No to whatever you're currently thinking. Just no."

Ricky inclined his head, amused. "So you're not so unaware after all."

Tinsley wrung the scabbard in his hands hard enough for the leather to crackle. He spoke through clenched teeth. "I was hoping I was mistaken."

"Not at all. Although my attraction to you is beyond my comprehension, believe me."

Tinsley's face reddened. "Because it's nonsensical. And hopeless. So get rid of it."

"Perhaps that's why I have it in the first place," said Ricky with a small shrug. "We all want the things we can't have."

"I am not a 'thing' you can't have," said Tinsley icily. "Now enough of this conversation. Where's the shopkeeper."

Tinsley strode past Ricky at such a rate of knots he caused a breeze that ruffled Ricky's hair. Ricky pulled a face before following. He slid an elbow onto the counter beside Tinsley, resting his chin in his hand as he spoke.

"There's no need to panic. I'm allowed to find you physically appealing."

"Leave me alone."

"Don't you find me somewhat attractive?"

"No," said Tinsley fiercely. "I find your face nothing but irritating. And you're much too short for my liking. _And_ the way you act is condemnable."

Ricky was silent for a moment. "So you do have a 'liking'."

Tinsley didn't respond for a moment. "What do you mean."

"Describe your ideal lover to me. Cure me of my boredom."

"I'm not having this conversation with you."

"I have a lover waiting for me back home, you know," said Ricky airily, resting his elbows back on the countertop. He studied Tinsley's face for a moment. "Now that I think about it, I believe you might have a look of each other."

"Shut up."

"Similar coloured hair. Similar eyes, although his are paler than yours. And you're taller than him, of course."

"That's very interesting," said Tinsley flatly, beginning to grow quite impatient indeed with the absence of the shopkeeper.

Ricky pursed his lips in thought, still watching Tinsley's face. "And I'd almost say you're just a bit better looking."

Tinsley turned his head to look at him, his face stony. "Enough."

"What? I'm just saying."

"And I'm saying, _enough."_ Tinsley gave him a disdainful once-over. "Have some self-control."

Ricky's brows shot up. _"You_ want to lecture _me_ on self-control? You, king of tantrums?"

"I don't throw tantrums."

"Then what was last night?"

"What do you mean."

"You shouted at me to leave your room for a reason I have yet to comprehend."

Tinsley turned to face him directly, looking down into his eyes. "The reason is because I hate you. Do you comprehend that, little man?"

Ricky shrugged. "I suppose. Although I'm not quite convinced." He leaned forwards, his voice a mischievous whisper. "If you truly hate me, why did you touch me the way you did that night in Snow's End? All you were asked to do was clean me up a little."

Tinsley's face paled somewhat, but he held his ground. "I don't recall what you're talking about."

"You have a surprisingly gentle touch, you know," said Ricky, inclining his head. His voice quietened. "A lover's touch."

"You must have been dreaming." Tinsley turned away, moving behind the counter. He heard footsteps follow, and so he turned around, placing a hand against Ricky's chest and holding him in place. "You stay here."

Ricky frowned at him. "Why do you even need to talk to this shopkeeper?"

Tinsley ignored him, disappearing into the back of the shop as if he owned the entire building. Ricky remained where he was, a moody pout on his face. He didn't understand Tinsley at all. He remembered how Tinsley had touched him that night, more gently than he could have ever imagined Tinsley being capable of. But that had seemed to be the end of it. Back on Storm's Eye, if two people were interested in each other, they pursued it without hesitation. But things were different here. Tinsley seemed to be pushing him away further and further with every passing hour; avoiding his eyes, ignoring his questions, pretending that he didn't even exist. Ricky didn't know how to respond. He was interested in Tinsley. He wanted him, carnally, and he knew Tinsley wanted him in return, in his own cold way. But how to go about solving this? Ricky sighed heavily, lingering by the counter, tracing the patterns in the knotted wood. He had considered his options the night before, when Tinsley had been asleep in the next room in the inn. He had considered simply going in and climbing on top of him and kissing him, as he had done with Anton. Yet he hadn't imagined that going down too well with Tinsley. He would have probably ended up back in his own room with a black eye and ten times the frustration in his chest. Tinsley was a challenge. Every look he threw Ricky, every word he spoke to him was a warning. Yet the more harshly he treated Ricky, the more Ricky wanted him. It was a strange jumble of emotions.

Ricky found himself at the far end of the shop, staring out the window at the docks. They were quite similar to the docks on Storm's Eye; old, ugly, wooden, but sturdier than stone. His heart ached. And then his heart stopped.

Three horses were making their way through the small buildings. Two of the riders wore flashing gold helmets and held equally flashy spears in their velvet gloved hands. The figure who rode between them wore a deep purple cloak made of a fabric so light and delicate it seemed to ripple like heated air. Ricky felt a sudden surge of anger in his chest at the sight of them, although he had no idea who they were, or what people they belonged to. He inclined his head, watching curiously from behind the junk-strewn window as they approached the docks. Then an arm fixed tightly around his waist, and Tinsley simply picked him up and carried him to the back of the shop, his footsteps loud and panicked. He ignored Ricky's protests and questions as he pulled open the storage cupboard behind the shop's counter and bundled him into it before squeezing himself in too and closing the door over sharply enough for it to slam. They were plunged into darkness.

"What are you doing?" hissed Ricky, feeling the corner of a shelf digging into his back. "Have you gone mad?"

"The shopkeeper was out back because she received word that a local Councillor was coming by to inspect the village," muttered Tinsley, "and I come out and find you basically dancing around in front of them, just _waiting_ to be spotted. Are you really so astoundingly stupid?"

"Well I don't know what a Councillor looks like," replied Ricky sharply, "which I guess shows exactly how useful of a 'guide' you've been."

The bell above the shop door tinkled, a deceivingly bright sound. Tinsley clamped a hand over Ricky's mouth, pushing him back against the shelves, holding him there as he leaned towards the gap between the door and the wall. He could hear footsteps approaching the counter, three sets. Two spears hitting the ground. Which meant one Councillor. Tinsley let out a quiet sigh. He could take on two Librarians if he had to. He fixed a hand around the dagger on the back of his belt, still listening intently to what was going on outside. The footsteps died out as they reached the counter. Then the shopkeeper's forcibly cheery voice.

"Good afternoon, Councillor. How may I help you today?"

A suspicious silence. Then a smoky voice. "There's been reported sightings of a griffin in the skies around this village."

"Oh. Oh, very interesting." The shopkeeper tittered. "I've never seen one up close before."

"Of course you haven't. Griffins don't stray from the Roost without a rider."

"Ah. I... forgot."

"So if there's a griffin around this village, it's not beyond me to assume that there's a rider around too."

Tinsley could feel Ricky's breaths warm against the palm of his hand. He could see the gleam of his eyes in the dark, watching him closely. Tinsley watched back, just for something to focus on.

"I haven't seen a rider about," said the shopkeeper, her voice wavering somewhat.

"Well, I'd have to take your word for that, wouldn't I? Riders are quite unmistakable, with their flashy coats. Which means that if I do happen to find one around here, then I'd have to assume you lied to me." A pause. "You're not lying to me, are you?"

"No."

"Well that's very reassuring to hear." The Councillor's voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't like liars."

"Not a fan of them myself," came the reply, the forced smile evident in the tone of the words.

"Mm." Another silence; Tinsley could just picture the penetrating look on the Councillor's face. "I'll be staying nearby until I hear of another griffin sighting. So if you change your mind and think that maybe you _did_ see something, don't hesitate to let me know."

"Will do." The footsteps began to recede. "Thank you for your visit, Councillor."

There was no reply. Just the tingling of the bell above the shop door before it closed. Tinsley felt Ricky pushing at him to let him go, but he ignored him for now, waiting. When the closet door was suddenly pulled open Tinsley whipped around, drawing the dagger from his belt, until he saw it was just the small portly shopkeeper. He glanced down the shop just to make sure it was truly empty. Then he looked back at the elderly shopkeeper.

"Thank you. You didn't have to do that."

"Oh, it's nothing," she replied, a little bashful. "My wife is a big fan of yours. Or was. Well, probably still is. She tried to keep up with what was happening on the Roost. The Silverbird was a little fixation of hers."

Tinsley didn't seem to know how to respond to this. Ricky slipped out of the closet behind him, taking a breath of fresh air. The shopkeeper looked at him in surprise.

"Oh? You have a..." She eyed the dark blue tendril just visible on the side of Ricky's neck. "...friend?"

Tinsley's face reddened. "No, it's- it's not what it looks like. It really isn't."

Ricky looked from one to the other, fiddling distractedly with a small lever on the till. "Why? What does it look like?"

"It doesn't matter," said Tinsley dismissively, slapping at the hand that was still fidgeting with the till. Ricky gave him an affronted look. "Let's get out of here. Quickly."

"You can stay here for the night," said the shopkeeper eagerly. "Evening is hardly an hour away, and the next village is a few hour's ride. And my wife would _love_ to meet you, she really would."

Tinsley glanced at the window that showed the outside world. He could see the sun beginning to set over the far horizon. "...If it wouldn't be too much to ask. A place to stay would be much appreciated."

"Not at all!" The shopkeeper glanced at Ricky again. "You and your _friend_ are very welcome."

Tinsley closed his eyes. "It's not- He's not- It doesn't matter. Thank you."

Ricky pulled a face at the interaction before following the two into the back of the shop. It opened up quite nicely indeed; the same odd bits and pieces from the shop also cluttered the shelves in the small kitchen, but these were clearly more valued. Small jewelry boxes and copper tea sets and shards of intricately painted crockery rested on every available flat surface. The stairs against the far wall led upstairs to what Ricky assumed must be the bedrooms. Through a door under the stairs he could see a sitting room, with a couch, an armchair, and a small fire in the fireplace. It was very cozy, very simple, very welcoming. It was the closest thing to home Ricky had experienced since he'd left.

"Do you like seafood chowder?" asked the shopkeeper.

Ricky nodded with a smile. "I love it."

* * *

"I should've known you had your eye on her," said Fear, following the Professor of Storms and Skies into his office. "You always get the brightest ones."

"Inaugurations function like a market behind the scenes," said Banjo amiably. "Haggling away. I'll let you have these students if you give me that student, and so on and so forth."

"And did you have to trade much for Francesca?"

"I would've paid pure gold to have your daughter in my School. She's bright, Fear. And innovative."

"Innovation isn't too good of a trait to have nowadays though, is it," said Fear quietly. 

"These days are risky days indeed," said Banjo, closing the door behind them. "I had a visit from a rider last week. She says the war is still ongoing on the Roost. She's here to try and bring the Silverbird back."

"The war is still ongoing?" repeated Fear, eyes widening. "And they allowed a rider into the city?"

“Oh no, not at all. She had to sneak in, which as you know isn't too difficult of a feat for a rider. _You’re_ the only person I’ve come across in the past few years who has passed in and out of this city unhindered." Banjo topped up Fear’s glass. He stopped at the slight lift of a bejeweled finger. “How has Gravehearth managed it? How have you managed to stay out of the Council’s sights?”

“Don’t be mistaken, my friend. We are very much in their sights. But if there’s one thing the Council seems to be frightened of, it’s the People of the End.”

“Everyone is frightened of you.”

“Everyone is frightened of death,” said Fear softly. “Even the Councillors. They look at us, they look at me, and can’t help but remember that one day they’ll be in Gravehearth, and it’ll be for their burial.”

“It’s not always for a burial, is it? You cure people sometimes.”

Fear gave him a long look over his half-moon glasses. “If a Councillor comes through the Howling Gate, they won’t be going back out. I can promise you that.”

Banjo’s face paled somewhat. “Even if you can cure them? Even if there’s nothing wrong with them?”

“It’s true, we’re taught to cure. We’re taught what plants soften your pains, what mixtures soothe your bones and your mind. But we’re also taught what harms.” Fear took a taste of his wine before continuing. “The forests in Gravehearth grow all sorts of plants. Nightshade can cause your skin to burn just by touching it. Ingesting its sweet berries will kill you stone dead. There’s more than enough toxins in one single jequirity pea to kill a grown adult within days. It doesn’t even have to be ingested, it simply has to make contact with the blood. Providing a person with milk from a cow that has eaten white snakeroot is enough to kill that person stone dead.” He smiled dryly at the alarmed look on Banjo’s face. “Arcania isn’t the only city who prizes education.”

“Tell me some of the good plants,” said Banjo with a weary sigh, melting into his chair. “Those ones will give me nightmares.”

Fear laughed quietly. “They’re native to Gravehearth. You’re safe up here in your ivory tower. But more importantly, Francesca will be safe here too.”

Banjo nodded quickly at the sidelong look Fear gave him. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“And you won’t be up to any sorts of activities that might endanger her? I remember you thirty years ago. Itching to invent.”

“That’s what we all were here!” He raised his glass in a grand salute. “The great Arcanians! Beacons of wisdom! Craftsmen of the future! Come all who have an idea to share.” He shook his head then, slouching back in his chair. “No more of that now. Just regurgitating the same information over and over again. Every year the new students seem more empty than the previous.”

“Well, change doesn’t last forever. Not even Council-enforced change.”

“It sure feels like it, Fear. Where to start? Everywhere I look there’s Councillors and their pet Librarians. I can’t move an inch within these city walls without them breathing down my neck.”

Fear went quiet. “We had a visit from them not too long ago. They mentioned Snow’s End.”

Banjo turned to face him across the table, all earnest. “Not much true news gets into this city. I haven’t heard exactly what happened.”

“The people from the Great Mines marched straight to Snow’s End and took control, it seems.” Fear tapped a finger repeatedly against his glass, his ring causing light clinking sounds upon impact. “I believe Absalom Borisovich still rules as Mayor.”

“He’s ruled for as long as I can remember. Have you ever met him?”

“No. Our paths have had no need to cross.” Fear raised his brows. “He was a close friend to the Silverbird for quite some time. It’s no wonder he harbours revolutionary sentiments, if he keeps such company.”

“Don’t we all harbour similar sentiments now? We all want the old days back. It’s funny how, if you wait long enough, the old days become a radical and forbidden future.”

“The old days indeed.” Fear placed his cup down and looked at Banjo. “Did you believe?”

Banjo looked back at him. “No. Did you?”

“Yes. I still do. Many in Gravehearth still do. We still pray. Our statues still stand.”

Banjo seemed a little stunned at this. “A city barely a day’s ride from the Council worships the old gods?”

“Yes. The Year’s Hunt never passed through our walls.” Fear gave him a long, steady look. “I think belief will be an important thing to have in the future.”

“Well, it’s just not possible. I didn’t come from a religious family, and I sure can’t start being religious now.” Banjo shuddered. “Either way, the gods frighten me.”

Fear raised his brows at this. Then he nodded at the bowl of chalks on the table between them. “Draw one of them for me.”

“Draw one?”

“Yes. I’m curious as to why you’re frightened.”

The corners of Banjo’s mouth turned downwards in a pensive manner. Then he shrugged, chose a piece of chalk with his pudgy fingers, and crossed to the blackboard. He drew sloppily, but Fear could see what he was trying to portray; angry eyes with slits for pupils, large jagged teeth and claws, scales instead of skin and seaweed instead of hair. Banjo stepped back after a few minutes of scratching chalk, and observed his work. Then he turned to Fear.

“That’s what I think they look like.”

“Mm. Very frightening altogether.”

“Oh it’s not very accurate, is it,” said Banjo wearily.

Fear shrugged, looking at him from over his glass. “I wouldn’t know. There’s no description of the gods in the texts, and no paintings or statues either.”

Banjo blinked once or twice before looking back at his crude drawing. “Then why did I..?”

Fear drained his glass and got to his feet. He smoothed down his cloak. “The Council has a way of worming into your mind and making you think things you previously hadn’t. That which you just drew is how the Council views the gods, and how it wants all of us to view them too.” He placed a firm hand on Banjo’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Stay vigilant, my friend. Make sure your thoughts are your own. It’s all we can do for now. But I'll tell you something; we're in for some interesting times ahead.”

Banjo pulled a face. "It's much easier to read about interesting times than to live through them, don't you think?"

"I certainly do think. I certainly do."

* * *

The seafood chowder was piping hot and chock full of prawns and cod. Ricky wolfed it down, helping himself to the crusty bread on offer. The chowder didn't quite taste like the ones from home, but it was still delicious. The shopkeeper's wife seemed delighted at his eagerness, smiling at him. Tinsley sat across the table from Ricky, eating slowly, seeming quite weary. The shopkeeper's wife gave her a slight kick under the table, and a meaningful look over it. The shopkeeper cleared her throat, looking at Tinsley.

"My wife added some spices," she said, "from the Roost. She knows that red pepper is popular there."

Tinsley slowed in his chewing, his eyes sliding sidelong to catch a glimpse of the simpering wife seated beside him. “That’s… very nice. Thank you.”

"She's always been a big fan of yours." A laugh. "Even when you were supposedly dead."

Tinsley swallowed his mouthful of food, patting at his mouth with a napkin. "Right."

“Very dangerous to be a fan of him, don’t you think?” said Ricky, trying to hide the slight hint of jealousy from his voice. “I’m sure there’s better people to be a fan of.”

“Like who?” said the wife, brows raised. “There’s only one Silverbird.”

Tinsley’s face reddened somewhat. He concentrated on his meal, head ducked, surprisingly reluctant to accept the attention given to him. Ricky arched an eyebrow at him, elbow propped on the table and fork held languidly in his hand.

“Well come on, Tinsley." He waved the fork. "She’s obviously waiting for something brilliant. Do a dance. Stand on your head. Sing us a song or tell us a story, for crying out loud.”

Tinsley glared across the table at him. Then he inclined his head. “Well perhaps I do have a tale to tell.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Yes. But I’m quite parched.” Tinsley pushed his cup towards him. “Refill my cup for me while I consider how to begin.”

Ricky blinked rapidly at this. “Excuse me?”

“Refill it, dearie,” said the wife, her simpering gaze still on Tinsley.

Ricky pushed his tongue into his cheek. Then he picked up the flagon of wine and began pouring it into Tinsley’s cup as Tinsley pretended to look pensive. He poured it until it had reached the brim, threatening to overflow, shiny and red. Then he set the flagon down with a cheeky tilt of his head. Tinsley gave him a vaguely amused look before picking up the brimming cup - carefully - and taking a taste.

“Mm. Lovely. Thank you, Ricky.”

“You’re _very_ welcome, Tinsley.”

Tinsley set the cup back down before turning to the couple beside them and beginning his tale. 

“There’s two goals to war. The first is to win. The second is to come out as the same person who went in. Only one of these goals can be achieved.” He went quiet for a moment before clearing his throat and continuing. “There are multiple times in every war where a person is faced with this choice. Either lose the war - and potentially lose your life too - but remain who you are, or win the war and change, bit by bit, into someone you don’t know. They are both forms of death.”

Ricky was watching him now, as curious as the two women beside him. Tinsley had eyes for nothing but his filled glass of wine. He lightly touched the cup with a finger, causing a ripple to spread through the liquid.

“There are two forms of sacrifice in war too. There’s the literal sacrifice, where you give your life to save others. Then there’s the sacrifice of who you are as a person, in order to allow others to remain who they are. Because there’s no point in starting a war if everyone comes out the other side complete shells of themselves. Some must be saved, and it’s these some that we have to trust in to remember why we started in the first place. War is a twisted ecosystem in this way. A man-made ecosystem. Some have to die in order for something greater to survive. So when you hear of the casualties of war, you multiply that number by ten. There’s more ways to die than just death.”

Ricky watched his face closely, watched the usual harsh mask slip off piece by piece until he was looking at a true human. No more icy cold eyes and skin as stiff as stone. No more frown etched permanently into this skin. Instead Ricky saw all the things he had been too busy to truly see; the small scar on the bottom of Tinsley’s lip, the way the hairs of his eyebrows were a darker shade than the hair on his head, the feathery lashes around his eyes, the sprinkling of freckles on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose, strikingly delicate on an otherwise impassive face. Ricky swallowed, averting his gaze. He bunched up his napkin in his hand.

“We have a story that we tell on the Roost, and it’s about these different forms of death,” continued Tinsley, unaware of Ricky’s studious eyes. “There were two sisters. Princesses. Some tellings call them twins, but it doesn’t really matter. They were identical in every way but one; they died different deaths. The first sister took her griffin halfway across the world. But she saw things that killed her, bit by bit. She saw the cruelty humans can have for each other. She saw how they treated each other. When she returned home, she was dead. Her family grieved upon her return. They grieved every time they saw her, every time they spoke to her. She wasn’t the person they knew. But the second sister never even crossed the Strait of Griffins, never set foot on the mainland. She was happy to remain in her home, with her family. Yet she died after falling from her griffin in flight. For her, the family grieved too. They buried her and they grieved more.” He finally looked at the listening table again. “Whose death do you think was more painful for the family?”

The two wives pondered this, hmm-ing and haw-ing. Then Ricky spoke, crisp and clear.

“The first sister. Because she died once and she’ll have to die again. That's two deaths.”

Tinsley gave him a long, cool look. The shopkeeper spoke up.

“Well I can’t decide. Which one is it?”

Tinsley still didn’t take his eyes from Ricky’s. “There is no answer. The point of the story is this: if you can answer the question asked, if you think one form of death is better or worse than the other, then you’re already dying.”

Ricky’s face fell slowly, his unblinking gaze fixed on Tinsley’s.

“The tale of the two sisters is how we remind ourselves to stay human during times of grief, or during times of war,” said Tinsley, turning his head aside to look at the wives. “If we begin to think that we can choose which death is more painful than another, we’re slipping. It’s beyond important to remember that there’s more forms of death than just dying, and each must be treated with respect. And all lives are as important as the next.”

Ricky dropped his gaze, clearing his throat. “...That’s a- a powerful story.”

"It's a powerful lesson," corrected Tinsley. "And one that everyone should learn."

Ricky helped the shopkeeper's wife wash up after the meal, to show his appreciation for her hospitality. She was a small woman with thick-framed glasses and a ready smile. She hummed as she washed up the plates, handing them over to Ricky to dry.

"How did you end up accompanying the Silverbird?" she asked, scrubbing away at a pot.

He shrugged. "A few reasons. I almost regret inviting him to come south with me."

She paused. "You invited him? And he said yes?"

"Seems so."

"Well, I've never heard of someone from the Roost accepting to travel with an outsider. They like to keep to themselves."

Ricky quirked an eyebrow, moving his towel vaguely around the dish he held. "Well, he still keeps to himself, I can promise you that." He put the plate aside and took the pot she handed to him. "Are they all like him?"

"Most. The Roost folk only communicate through war. They respect those who take what they want with force. Minimum words, maximum action."

Ricky distractedly dried the pot, watching her. "...They like action instead of words?"

"Oh, yes indeed. They don't ask for what they want. They grab it by the horns and _take_ it. It's what they're known for. Conquering."

Ricky nodded slowly. "Take it. I see." He looked aside. "So- So they like an assertive approach to things."

She nodded, humming to herself again. "It's what they understand best."

"Huh." Ricky looked into the next room, where Tinsley and the shopkeeper were tidying off the table. "Okay."

After the work was done, the shopkeeper led Ricky and Tinsley upstairs. She lit candles along the way, adding a warm glow to the rug-strewn hallway. She stopped by a door.

"This is me and my wife's room," she said, before leading them onward. "And this door is your room."

Tinsley and Ricky went still as she pushed open the door and revealed the lone bed in the far corner of the cozy room. The shopkeeper hurried inside, dusting off the chest of drawers, plumping the cushions on the deep-red couch.

"It hasn't been used in a while," she said apologetically. "But the sheets have been freshened."

Tinsley stared at the bed. Then he looked at her and said stiffly: "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," she said, giving both of their arms a warm squeeze. "Now don't you hesitate to come and get me if you need anything. Water, food, anything."

She closed the door gently, yet it seemed to be impossibly loud within the room. Ricky was failing to stifle his smile as he swanned over to the bed and brushed a hand over the duvet. Then he flopped back onto it, arms spread.

"Oh, so soft. We're going to have a _fantastic_ sleep."

Tinsley's reply was icy. "I'll sleep on the couch."

"You won't fit on the couch."

"I'll sleep on the damn floor then."

"Very uncomfortable."

"Then _you_ can sleep on the couch," said Tinsley, taking his weapons belt from around his waist and hanging it on the back of the door. "You'd definitely fit."

Ricky watched him, propped on an elbow. "That story you told at dinner. Who taught you it?"

"I can't remember." Tinsley sat down on the couch, rubbing a weary hand down his face. He pulled his gloves off, setting them aside. "Why do you care?"

"It was... good. It was unexpected, coming from you."

Tinsley watched warily as Ricky got off the bed and instead sat on the couch beside him. Close. Too close. Ricky smiled at him, perfectly charming. Tinsley remained still. He swallowed, keeping the movement subtle. He didn’t want Ricky knowing he was feeling nervous all of a sudden. He had a feeling Ricky knew anyway, however; his dark eyes held a glimmer of mischief in their depths, like gold at the bottom of the ocean. Ricky moved ever closer, so close their legs were touching. The silence lingered. The low candlelight shed warmth on one half of their faces, a flickering glow. Ricky hadn't looked away from Tinsley's eyes once. Brazen. Assertive.

"You intrigue me, Tinsley. You keep so much of yourself hidden."

Tinsley felt the touch on his thigh before he saw it. Ricky's hand moved slowly, softly, fingertips reaching the inside of Tinsley's thigh before stopping. Tinsley lifted his unreadable gaze from Ricky's hand to his eyes. He didn't speak. Ricky seemed to take this as a hint to move closer with a small smile, his black lashes silky in the candlelight, his lids heavy and smooth as his eyes drifted down to Tinsley's lips.

"I'd like to get to know you."

Tinsley raised a dubious eyebrow at this. Ricky smiled at the expression.

"I don't ever remember you being so silent." Ricky moved ever closer, tucking one leg underneath him on the couch so that he was facing Tinsley more directly. Their faces were inches apart. Ricky let his mouth hover half-open for a quiet moment - an invitation he didn't usually have to offer more than once - before whispering: "Are you intimidated by me?"

Tinsley shook his head, a small, slow movement. He felt Ricky's hand on his chest, pressing in, and Ricky leaned in closer, and he kissed him. Tinsley found himself physically stunned, his lips remaining still and parted as Ricky kissed him again, breathing warmth back into him, reminding him that he wasn't all stone and ice but soft skin and hot blood. He closed his eyes, still aware of the heat from Ricky's face where it touched his own, the heat of his breath on his mouth, the heat of his hand even through the clothing that covered his chest. He let Ricky kiss him again, and he let Ricky softly tease his mouth open to kiss him with more hunger, more passion. Tinsley inhaled sharply through his nose, one hand cupping Ricky's face, drawing him in deeper. Ricky reacted eagerly, slipping an arm around Tinsley's neck, pressing his body flush against Tinsley's, straddling one of his legs, getting as close as he could. Their heavy breaths were the only sound in the silent room as they kissed and kissed, roughly, selfishly, pulling each other close. Ricky's hands ran over Tinsley's chest and to the buttons that held his coat closed, fumbling to undo them. He took his mouth from Tinsley's and instead kissed his neck, unaware of the look of bitter bliss that passed over Tinsley's face, his mouth falling open and eyes squeezing shut. Tinsley forced himself to focus, gritting his teeth and glaring with grim determination at the ceiling. He could feel Ricky's mouth pushing under his jaw, breaths hot and soft, teeth grazing. His hand involuntarily cupped Ricky’s face, brushing a thumb against his cheek. It would be so easy to simply let it happen. Just to let Ricky have what he wanted. Ricky kissed the side of his face, then kissed him on the mouth again, cupping his face, pulling him forwards off the couch, hands tangling in his hair. Tinsley mentally shook himself, using all the strength he could muster to pull back.

Ricky moved to follow, but he felt Tinsley's hand against the bottom of his neck, and Tinsley gently but firmly held him away. Their noses still brushed with the slightest movement, their gazes watched each other's open mouths. Ricky swallowed, his pulse racing, the want in his chest almost painful to hold in.

"What are you doing," said Tinsley, his voice dark and quiet.

Ricky placed his hand over Tinsley's where it was still pressed against his neck. He smiled slightly. "That's up to you."

"Get off me. Now."

For a moment, Ricky debated doing so. He tilted his head aside, as if to kiss Tinsley again, before murmuring: "Well aren't you a tease."

Tinsley's eyes narrowed. "Off."

Ricky slid back to his own side of the couch, lounging against the arm of it. He kept his legs spread, one boot on the floor and the other still on the couch. He watched Tinsley get to his feet and dust himself off, as if having rolled in dirt. Ricky wasn't too insulted. He knew when someone wanted him, no matter what mask they tried to hide behind.

"Tell me something, rider. You act as if you've never touched anyone, never let anyone touch you, yet you're quite pleasant to kiss. Most aren't so confident the first time." He watched the back of Tinsley's head. "None are so confident the first time."

He waited for an explanation. Instead, Tinsley turned to face him and said, in a furious voice: "You are ruining _everything_ for me."

"I think you've been lying, Tinsley." Ricky's voice was a song, teasing, like a child's rhyme. "I don't think you're as honourable as you like to pretend you are. What have you done?"

"Shut up. I mean it. Shut the fuck up."

Ricky grinned at him, resting his chin in his hand. "You can tell me. I promise it'll stay a secret."

Tinsley's glare grew fiercer. "Do you know why no one treats you with respect here? Do you know why they whisper behind your back? It's because you look like the painted whores in the Temples. You look like a whore, Ricky. You dress like one, and not only that but you act like one too."

Ricky stared at him. "What are you talking about? What _are_ the Temples?"

"The Temples is a city of brothels, you idiot. It's only allowed to remain because it brings in so much money for the Council. It pretends that its residents abide by your religion, of free love and all of that shit, but the reality is they're prostitutes, and they're forced to sell themselves every damn night. They even paint on those stupid tattoos you have. That's what your religion symbolizes here. Happy?"

Ricky was speechless. His eyes were wide enough to show the whites all around the black irises. "...That's horrible."

"That's reality. That's how it is."

Icy realization flooded over Ricky, leaving behind a cold shock. He stood up, slowly, his eyes on Tinsley's suddenly guilty ones. "...How long did you spend there."

Tinsley straightened up. His face flushed red. "I didn't."

"I'm not as stupid as you like to pretend I am." He narrowed his eyes at him. "You hate me because of the time you spent there, don't you."

"I- It was a while ago. I'm not proud of it." Tinsley swallowed hard. "I drank a lot. I stayed in the Temples for a week. Maybe two. I don't know. I wasn't sober for most of it."

"My heart breaks for you."

"Fuck you. I'm not explaining myself to you."

"That's why you hate me, isn't it?"

"Oh, because you're a fucking physical reminder of everything I did wrong?" said Tinsley, his voice rising. "Yes! That is why I hate you!"

"How many whores do I remind you of, hm? Did they all look like me?"

Tinsley gritted his teeth.

"Well?" Ricky spread his arms. "Did they?"

"Yes. Although they weren't half as fucking mouthy."

Ricky laughed; it started bright, but ended poisonous and sharp. "You're pathetic. And you're a fucking hypocrite. Drowning your sorrows between some whore's legs, drinking yourself into a stupor for, what was it, a week? Two weeks? And then having the audacity to act the way you do?”

"Shut up." Tinsley blinked furiously; he could feel his eyes beginning to burn. "Stop it. Stop talking."

"You've probably fucked more people than I have."

"I said stop talking!"

"And even if you-"

Ricky was cut off by a stinging, open-handed slap across the face. This time, he let himself react as he wanted to. He returned the slap, just as hard, just as stinging, putting his weight behind it as if it were a punch he was throwing. Tinsley snarled a curse, and his hand lashed out again, but this time it didn't leave Ricky's face once it had struck it; it grabbed a firm hold of Ricky's jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks. Tinsley dragged him aside, driving him back against the wall with enough force to rattle the door beside them in its hinges.

"You watch yourself," growled Tinsley, his eyes narrowed and hateful, his words hot against Ricky's mouth. Their noses hovered a hair's breadth from each other. "You're getting a bit too confident for my liking."

"I don't think it matters how I act," replied Ricky stiffly, his hands tight around Tinsley's wrist, "because it's not how I act that makes you like this. It's who I am."

"Oh, very profound."

"It's true. You have no control over yourself."

"The more you talk, the more I think about how easy it would be to take all your teeth from your mouth."

"You must live a terribly frustrating life," continued Ricky, his eyes hard and glittering. Tinsley's fingers were painful against his skin. "You grow up having to repress everything you feel, everything you want, and then when you finally get what you want you're ashamed of it."

"Ricky. I'm warning you. Shut your filthy mouth."

"Maybe you just didn't get what you want the right way?" Ricky spared a grin, the barest glimmer of teeth. His words were spiteful, spat out. "Maybe you just need someone who can fuck you right."

Tinsley held his gaze. The muscle in his jaw clenched and unclenched. Then he suddenly pulled away, putting familiar distance between them again. Ricky remained leaning back against the wall. One hand massaged his stiff jaw where the cruel ghost of Tinsley's grip still lingered. Tinsley himself took a few fuming breaths before speaking.

"If you _ever_ kiss me again I'll make you regret it immensely," he said, his words scraping out through gritted teeth.

Ricky set his shoulders back against the wall. Then he straightened up, letting out a sharp breath. “I’m finding somewhere to drink.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t leave this building.”

“No, _you_ can’t leave this building, 'Silverbird'.” Ricky yanked open the door, glaring over his shoulder at him. “I, on the other hand, can go wherever I want, because I don't have a damn bounty on my head.”

The door slammed, rattling in its hinges. Tinsley closed his eyes, teeth clenched. What did he care if Ricky wandered off and got himself in trouble? It wasn't even his business at the end of the day. He wanted to get rid of Ricky, but maybe he should just sit back and allow Ricky to get rid of himself.

Tinsley sat down, doubling over, raking his fingers through his hair. Then he slumped back on the couch, hands over his face, and muttered: "Fuck."


	15. Antidotes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed_  
>  _And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane."_ \- Sylvia Plath

Tinsley woke up on the couch, under the window. This made sense, as he had purposely fallen asleep there. He was still fully clothed, but for his coat. It wasn’t much of an issue; he had slept in more uncomfortable situations in his lifetime. Battlefields and the mud-strewn tents that came with them rarely offered much in terms of comfort. But at least there he had Sky to envelop him with her warm, cloudy feathers. He wasn’t sure where she was now, but she wouldn’t stray too far. She was always within hearing distance, in case he had to whistle for her. 

He sat upright and stretched, linking his hands behind his head, before standing up and stretching again. He glanced at the bed. It was empty. Ricky hadn’t come back the night before. Tinsley didn't have to guess why. He pictured him entangled with someone else under the covers of another person's bed. He imagined his warm skin, he remembered his body, how it looked under his clothes. Tinsley shook the thoughts from his head, angrily. Ricky was just a test. A cruel test. Because when Tinsley had managed to sober up for long enough to leave the Temples, he had told himself never again. Never again would he stoop so low. His honour was bruised and beaten but he could still salvage it. If only Ricky wasn't watching it with hungry eyes, claws at the ready, mouth watering. Ricky, Ricky, Ricky. This nightmare that had washed up into his life with lustful hands, brimming with hot-blooded hedonism. He should never have let Ricky kiss him. He should never have kissed Ricky back. Ricky had done something to him in that moment. Tinsley was aware of his pulse again, how it moved through his veins. The colours out the window were more vibrant that before, painful to his eyes. He would rather have stayed dead to the world, but Ricky had kissed him to life again. And then Ricky had gone to some stinking pub and spent the night with some other equally irritating individual. But Tinsley didn't care. He didn't.

He set about his day. He washed with hot water brought to him. He scrubbed his skin raw, he washed his hair, his face, until he felt like he had stripped away a layer of himself to reveal a newer, fresher Tinsley underneath. Then he got dressed again - leaving his telltale coat on the back of the door - and went downstairs to have something to eat. He quickly grew to know the wives who were currently sheltering him. He knew from the beginning that they were brave. Not everyone would offer to harbour a fugitive, especially not one as risky as him. Yet the shopkeeper had stepped forwards, without hesitation. She had lied to a Councillor, brazen. Her name was Mayeda. She had taken over the shop after her former husband had perished at sea. She had hardly turned twenty-five at the time. Around the same time her current wife, Anita, had moved from a nearby village to this one. Anita spoke to everyone as if they were her best friend. She had always been like that, explained Mayeda. During the mourning period for her husband, Mayeda had had to keep the shop open. She had no other income, no support. But she began to realize it would have been much worse had she shut up the shop, as then she would never have met Anita. She used to wait impatiently everyday for Anita to wander inside, her basket full of groceries on her arm and deep green hairscarf on her head. Anita would study every little object with interest. Then she would get to the counter and strike up a conversation. Sometimes her words were witty, and made Mayeda smile. Sometimes they brought her near tears with their softness.

"I didn't think she even knew who I was," said Mayeda. She was elderly now, they both were, with grey hair and large spectacles. "She was so friendly with everyone. And kind. And she was so beautiful. She is still all of these. Friendly, kind, beautiful. She blessed my life."

Anita smiled. The skin beside her eyes crinkled as she did so. "You were the only person I had to work up courage to talk to."

Tinsley watched them reach for each other's hands and hold them tightly. "And that was it? You got married?"

"Oh, not for a year or so."

Mayeda reached for her cup of tea. "What about you and your friend?"

Tinsley stared at her, debating whether or not to remind her that he and Ricky weren't friends, and that they most certainly did not have marriage on the horizon. He just shook his head and said: "He's gone."

"Oh." Mayeda blinked. "I thought I saw him out the window earlier. Down on the beach. Talking to a little group of people, I think. He wears the black coat that's too big for him?"

"Yes, that's him. But I don't think he'll be coming back here."

Anita pressed her lips in a line. "We did hear you arguing last night. Was it bad?"

"No." Tinsley went back to his soup, the same soup as they'd eaten the night before. "It was nothing."

"You don't eat much," said Mayeda, spooning some more soup into his bowl, ignoring his refusal. "I don't know how you haven't wasted away."

"I eat as much as I need to."

"Those who don't eat much are usually full with something else," said Anita, bringing a spoonful of soup to her mouth. "Sadness can be very filling."

Tinsley didn't respond. He began to eat, gaze lowered, spoon moving rhythmically. It was a thin vegetable soup made from the scraps they were allowed to keep from the local harvest. Most of this harvest went straight into the Councillor's hands to be brought back to their Station. The smell of the soup filled Tinsley's head and made him feel sick. But he forced himself to keep eating, in case he hurt their feelings. They were a welcoming couple. Tinsley couldn't fault their hospitality at all. He could stay for as long as he needed to, they said, and they would keep an eye out for the Councillor, and tell him immediately if she left. It wasn't too unusual of a situation for Tinsley. Back on the Roost he had lived like this for a year, accepting shelter from the elderly and the weak, those who couldn't fight with weapons, yet chose to fight in their own way. Yet still Tinsley couldn't get comfortable. He was irritated. The afternoon passed to evening and he was still irritated. He couldn't believe that Ricky had truly just gone. Moved on, like the unfaithful little creature he was. Tinsley wasn't sure what he had been expecting. There wasn't a kind bone in Ricky's body. He was a liar, he was deceitful in every way. Tinsley felt sorry for whoever Ricky had latched onto, but he was glad that it wasn't him anymore. It was good that Ricky had gone. It was the best thing that could have happened. Tinsley could safely take the bed tonight, alone. And Ricky could have his own bed, far away. Probably not alone. But it didn't matter. He was dwelling too much on it. He reminded himself that he didn't care. He had been alone for the past two years, blissfully alone. So he didn't _care_ that Ricky had gone.

To distract himself from not caring, he set about his usual routine in the evenings; proper, practiced stretches. Flexibility and range of motion were detrimental to wielding a weapon, along with balance. A single stumble in a fight, or a movement pulled back too slowly, could spell the end. He had to stay supple.

Firstly, he reached his arms far above his head, taking one wrist in the other hand and pulling. Then he bent all the way down to touch his toes, keeping the backs of his legs perfectly straight. He went a bit further and touched the wooden planks of the floor. He straightened back up, hands on his hips, eyeing the empty bed with irritation. Then he lay down on his back on the floor, drawing his knee up to his chest, holding it there. He did the same with his other leg. He was a bit stiff, seeing as he hadn't bothered with stretching the night before, or that morning either. He got onto his hands and knees. Then he heard the first crunch of teeth into a nice crisp apple. His head snapped around to see Ricky lounging in the doorway, propped against the frame, one arm folded across his chest and the other hand holding the shiny red apple taken from the bowl of fruit left beside the door. As casual as if he hadn't disappeared for the entire day. Tinsley sat back on his knees with a glare.

“Don’t mind me,” said Ricky through a mouthful of apple. Then he grinned. “Stand up and touch your toes again, but this time do it with your back to me.” He raised his hands in mock-submission at the dark look on Tinsley’s face. “Fine, okay. Stay on your knees. It’s not too bad of a sight either, I suppose.”

Tinsley didn’t smile, but his heart was racing. He got to his feet, dusting his hands off. “I thought you were long gone. Or let me rephrase that; I had _hoped_ you were long gone.”

“I was only a few buildings down,” said Ricky, stepping into the room. His skin seemed a little damp, his hair dripping. He must’ve gone for a dip in the sea, as he was inclined to do. “Missed you immensely.”

“I’m sure.”

"Thought about you a few times."

"Right."

Ricky paused by the bed, observing the undisturbed sheets. “Chose the couch last night, did you? How considerate. Were you expecting me to come back so soon?” He winked at him. "When I bed someone, it's not over in a night."

Tinsley smoothed his hair back off his face, nose in the air. “I’m surprised you had the manners not to bring back whatever imbecile you spent the night with.”

“Imbeciles,” said Ricky, emphasizing the plurality of the word. He smiled at the narrow-eyed look Tinsley gave him. “And guess what? They thought I was a whore from the Temples. Which I didn’t exactly deny.”

Tinsley watched with a stony face as Ricky drew a cloth bag of jangling coins from his pocket and chucked it at him. He reflexively snatched it from the air. The weight of the coins made his teeth grit. Ricky raised his dark brows at him, cocking his head to one side.

“Consider that your payment for being such a helpful guide,” he said wryly, “but I don’t think we have need for each other anymore. I can make my own way.”

Tinsley tossed the bag back at him, wiping his hands on the front of his jumper before fetching his gloves. “I won’t take your whore’s gold.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot. You only _give_ gold to whores, isn’t that right?”

Tinsley turned to face him, eyes intense. He drew both of his gloves on before speaking. “You must still be blind drunk if you think you can talk to me like that.”

"So you can give it but you can't take it." Ricky bit into his apple, speaking around his mouthful. "Figures. You're all show."

"Did you come back here just to piss me off."

Ricky lingered by the bed, eyeing it thoughtfully. "I just wanted one last look at you before I left." He smirked at him. "The one that got away."

"How romantic," said Tinsley flatly. "Now you've had your look, so off you go." _Travel by night, you little idiot. See where that gets you._

"But when I'm gone, what will you do?" Ricky didn't move towards the door. He sat down on the bed, lazily crossing his legs. "What will you have to live for? It almost seems inevitable that you'll just rot away at the edge of the world. You know, if you hang around here, I might come back and visit you sometime. I'll sing you all the songs people will have written about me. Wouldn't you like that?"

Ricky took another bite of his apple, watching Tinsley as he did so. He was satisfied to see that Tinsley was angry; his jaw was clenched, nostrils flared, eyes hard and unblinking. The fingers of his right hand twitched, and he automatically reached for the hilt of his rapier, grasping air. His breaths were short and sharp out of his nose. All the telltale signs that Ricky had had plenty of time to learn. He smiled.

"Maybe you'd feel differently about me then, Tinsley. Maybe you'd be pleading to spend a few hours with me, just to be able to tell people that you did."

"I already am what you want to be," said Tinsley quietly. "Known throughout the land for what I've done. It's not as pleasant as your little mind might imagine."

"Mm. But you see, I won't fuck it up."

"You won't have a choice in the matter. Believe me."

"I always have a choice."

Tinsley let out a sharp 'tsk' between his teeth. "I used to think you were naive. Now I see you're just infuriatingly cocky."

Ricky laughed. "You must be having an influence on me after all, then."

"You did come back here just to irritate me, didn't you." Tinsley stood with his hands on his hips, fingers tapping impatiently. "And I know why."

"Do you?"

"Yes. It's because I refused you last night. You're not used to being refused, are you? So you had to scuttle off to some dingy little pub to make yourself feel wanted again."

Ricky gave him a flat look. "No. I came back here because I'm staying here tonight."

Tinsley let out a sharp breath. "No you're not."

"You don't have the authority to say no. It's not your home."

"Well- Well then I hope you enjoy sleeping on the couch."

"Aw. You're throwing a little tantrum again."

"I don't throw tantrums!" shouted Tinsley, fists clenched by his sides. "Maybe you should go and stay wherever you stayed last night! Or were you not offered another night? I won't say I'm fucking surprised, since you're the most annoying little prick in the entire damn world!"

Ricky raised his brows at this furious torrent of words. "You have something wrong with you. I love it."

There was a polite knock on the door. Then Mayeda stuck her head in, adjusting her glasses on her nose. "Would either of you like some tea? Maybe chamomile?"

Ricky smiled at her from where he was sprawled on the bed. "That would be lovely. Thank you."

The room was silent until Mayeda returned with the small ceramic cups of tea. She gave one to each of them, shuffling across the floorboards.

"I hope you both sleep well," she said, heading back towards the door.

"We will," said Ricky cheerily. "Thank you again."

Tinsley placed his tea aside once the door had closed. "That was a very polite way of her to tell us to shut up."

"Wasn't it?" Ricky tasted his tea, closing his eyes. "Mm. Good tea though."

"I don't like chamomile."

"Why? Because you have an aversion to relaxation?"

Tinsley stood by the bed, arms folded. "Get up."

Ricky seemed to debate doing this. His head tilted from one side to the other, his gaze drifting. Then he shrugged and got to his feet. "Fine. You can have the bed."

"I know."

Ricky shrugged off his coat, dropping it onto the floor before letting himself fall onto the couch, one hand behind his head and the other still holding his tea. "It's comfortable here. I don't know what the big deal was about getting the bed."

"It was a matter of principle."

"Which means?"

Tinsley ignored him. He picked up Ricky's coat and hung it on the back of the door beside his own, ensuring there was still enough space between the fabrics that they didn't touch. He could feel Ricky watching him, he could hear him obnoxiously slurping his tea. Tinsley went back to the bed and sat on it. He reached for his own tea, giving it a sniff. He caught a waft of honey. He liked honey. He hadn't tasted its sickly sweet flavour in a long time. It was popular on the Roost. After a moment's deliberation, he took a mouthful of the drink. The taste seemed to break him up from the inside, it made his throat feel tight. He placed the tea aside.

"Tell me about yourself, Tinsley."

Tinsley looked sidelong at Ricky. "What?"

"I've been traveling with you for a few days now, yet I still feel as if I hardly know you." Ricky was studying him with interest. "You know a lot about me. It's only fair that you return the favour."

"You telling me about yourself is not a favour. It's a punishment."

"You're so miserable all the time." He raised an eyebrow. "You should take a lover."

"I can't take a lover," replied Tinsley flatly.

"Why not?"

"Because I want something that I won't be able to have if I have a lover. Especially if they're foreign."

Ricky seemed quite confused by this. "What do you want?" He didn't get an answer. "Hello?"

Tinsley pulled his gloves off, placing them aside. "I want to be a leader, Ricky. I can't be a leader if I have distractions. And I can't rule if I have a lover."

"A leader? Of who?"

"It doesn't matter. I don't think I'll get them back."

"That's a silly reason not to have a lover. Most rulers do, don't they not? I've read the stories."

"Most rulers have a wedded partner," said Tinsley, arching an eyebrow. "Which in turn leads to nothing but complications when it comes to succession. Where I come from, you can't rule if you have a partner. You need to have no living heirs, no living partner who could claim a right to rule through blood."

"But what about kin?"

Tinsley shrugged. "I don't have any. No one on the Roost has any."

"And what about your parents?"

"We aren't told who our parents are. We don’t have any siblings. Only one child per couple.”

Ricky sat up at this, baffled. "You aren't told who your own parents are?!"

"No. And they're not told who their children are either." Tinsley unbuttoned the collar of his coat. "We have a saying - blood relations, blood spilled. That's how it is."

Ricky's voice was quiet. "So you don't have anyone."

Tinsley went still. His face grew stiff. "I- I have someone."

"Someone?”

"Had. I had someone."

"And where did they go?"

"She stayed at home," said Tinsley. "And I wouldn't have tried to get her to leave. There was no reason. We weren't in love."

Ricky perked up at the sound of this person. "So what were you? Just sleeping together?"

"We slept together once," said Tinsley, his cheeks growing a shade of pink. "Just the once."

"And?"

Tinsley shrugged, remembering the fumbling and shaky hands, the innocent excitement. "It was okay."

"Okay?" He laughed, lying back on the couch. "Gods. Just okay. What a life you live, big man."

Tinsley narrowed his eyes at him. "Oh, and what? You've had sex a thousand times and each time was incredible?"

"Yes. That's exactly it." Ricky smiled slyly. "You learn fast."

Tinsley rolled his eyes, getting to his feet. "You're unbearable."

Ricky watched him cross the room to the sink beside the door. "What was she like?"

Tinsley didn't respond for a moment. "She was... a good person. Better than me. She knew what was right. She knew when to give up."

"Sounds like a total bore." Ricky snored loudly, a single one, before sitting upright. "You need someone who'll show you how to have fun."

Tinsley's voice was dry. "I'm not interested."

"As much as I'm complimented that you consider me as someone who knows how to have fun, I'm not much interested in you either." Ricky looked him over, slowly. "Too serious for my liking."

"Then you should stop looking at me like that," said Tinsley, giving him a stern look in the mirror.

Ricky smiled at him, tossing the half-eaten apple lightly in his hand. "Listen, I find you physically attractive, I'll admit that. Yet for some reason the idea of letting you have me in bed isn't one that delights me."

Tinsley was still staring at him in the mirror. "Well I wouldn't want you in bed anyway."

"Great. So that's settled."

"Mm." Tinsley stared at him for another long moment before focusing on himself in the mirror, brushing the back of his fingers against his stubble. "Out of curiosity, what do you find unattractive about me."

Ricky mulled this over, taking another crunching bite out of his apple. He spoke around his mouthful. "You're much too angry. I wouldn't trust you with all that anger."

"I thought you liked the idea of 'relieving' me of my stress," said Tinsley dryly.

"I do." Ricky leaned back with a grin, propping himself on an elbow. "But I feel like if you choked me in bed you might decide not to stop."

Tinsley let out a slight laugh, vaguely amused. "Maybe. But what's that called? Heat of the moment? Throes of passion?"

"Crime of passion, more like."

"You're very witty tonight. What's the occasion?"

Ricky smiled at the back of his head. "I'm a little excited, Tinsley. It's almost time for bed, and you still need to finish your stretches."

Tinsley looked over his shoulder at Ricky, who was laid out like a courtesan on a chaise lounge, a hand propping his head up and the other occupied with bringing the red apple to and from his mouth, leisurely. "Hoping for a show, are you?"

"Mm." Ricky waved a vague hand. "Whenever you're ready. No rush."

"Ha ha ha. Ha. Shut up."

Ricky smiled at him, wry. He got to his feet, swanning over to him, letting his sultry gaze linger on Tinsley's flat one. He examined the core of the apple now left in his hand.

"Did you know," he began airily, "that I can tie the stem of an apple in a knot using only my tongue?"

Tinsley raised an eyebrow. "A man of many talents, aren't you."

Ricky smiled, resting a shoulder against the wall beside them. "Do you want to see? It's very impressive. I think you'll like it."

Tinsley's gaze didn't flicker. "Do you want to know something I can do with an apple?"

"Oh, most definitely."

Tinsley crossed to the bowl, plucking a deep red apple from the rest before moving back to stand right in front of Ricky. He raised the apple between them, holding it firm in the palm of his hand, fingers wrapped around it. "Watch. Very closely."

Ricky did so, brows raised. He heard the cracking before he saw it. The red skin of the apple split to show the yellow flesh underneath, an uneven divide down the centre, Tinsley's fingers digging in, crushing it without even breaking a sweat, without even a hint of strain but for the white around his knuckles. Ricky realized his own face had fallen flat, eyes unblinking and mouth slightly open. Tinsley smiled at him, more of a threat than a friendly gesture.

"Skulls split in a surprisingly similar manner, you know." He pressed the wet lumps of apple into Ricky's hand. "Hold onto that for tonight. Might remind you to keep your distance."

He waited expectantly for Ricky to leave, a hand on the sink and the other on his hip. For once, Ricky seemed at a loss for words, his own apple core lingering near his mouth. He turned away from Tinsley, but not without running a hungry gaze over his body from head to toe, unsmiling. He stopped by the couch, half-turned to look at Tinsley, who was looking back, a hand still resting on the sink. The space between them grew tauter. Then Ricky opened his mouth and showed his tongue. On it was a perfectly knotted apple stem. He plucked it from his tongue and smiled.

"And you can hang onto that," he said quietly. "Just in case you decide distance isn't all what it's made out to be."

Tinsley swallowed hard. "Goodnight, Ricky."

A pause. "Goodnight, Tinsley."

Tinsley stared at him for another moment, his jaw working. Then he quickly crossed to the candle and pinched it out. The sharp flare of heat against his skin failed to ground him.

* * *

_I've always had an intense fondness for the inexplicable. The inexplicable renders everything else a lie. If something cannot be explained by science or academia or religion then what do any of these things do? If they cannot explain everything then why should we believe they explain anything in the first place? Is every explanation we throw at something really a shroud to hide the fact that nothing makes sense? The thought is brilliant. It terrifies me alive. Nothing makes sense in here. These four walls. Dripping stone. Crying stone. I miss the air. I miss the breeze. The freedom of the sky. Is it still blue? I cannot remember colours. Everything is grey on grey. Washed out. Soaked in water. The ~~air~~ sky is where we should go. The sky is the only place we can survive what's coming. The sky is refuge. But the sea? The seas will rise. That's what they say. And even the sky can only reach so high before it's swallowed up and torn apart by bloody waves. Cruel hands. ~~A monster sits in the corner. I can see it when I close my eyes.~~ I'm almost out of paper. I must get more. They threatened to take more than my finger if I was caught again. I know the threat is full. I've seen others with no hands. Just an abrupt end to the arm. Is that where I am now? Is my life just an endless abrupt end? I miss my loves. I miss my loves._

* * *

The gates to the School of Storms and Skies was a burnished gold work of art set into dark wood. The gold working was twisted and intertwined to portray an image of the night sky, with stars of various sizes scattered throughout the known planets, and the moons seated pride of place in the centre. Fran absorbed every minute detail with wide eyes. Beyond the gates were the notable towers of the School that could be seen from everywhere in the city. The buildings took up little space when compared to the other Schools and their territories, but the height of the buildings made up for it. Some were regularly shrouded in cloud. The lenses of so many telescopes blinked from windows and roofs, aimed skyward. Fran took a deep breath before following the rest of the students to the smaller door set into the large gates. It was locatable due to the golden cloud and tendrils of lightning that marked it, and was left unlocked all throughout the day. Students were given keys to unlock it, however, in case they required access to their studies outside of usual hours.

Fran had such a key, in one of the pockets of her new cloak. The weight of the cloak on her shoulders, all deep blue velvet and gold threading, was a delight to have. The Professor of Storms and Skies had handed it to her after she had been inaugurated, and it was a solid dream she could hold in both hands, a dream she could wear and show the world. The collar was high, the hem reached her knees, and the entirety of the fabric was embellished with the most intricate golden clouds, and interconnected with fragile forks of lightning. She had traced her fingers over the designs, feeling the softness of the threads against her skin, admiring the craftsmanship. Inside the cloak were numerous stitched pockets, some large enough for books and papers, some only for pens and pencils. One had a clasp, and it was this one that held the key to the School.

Once she had passed through the gates and into the grounds, the students melted away, finding their classes. Fran took a moment to take in her surroundings. Through the buildings, as far as she could see, were some of the strangest contraptions she had ever laid eyes on. She made her way through them with wandering steps. On the sides of some of the towers were tall, narrow glass tubes filled with a gleaming red liquid. Numbers marked the sides. On a pedestal in the middle of a small square sat a glass container with a winding tube emerging from the side and reaching up to end above the central compartment. It almost seemed like some sort of fairytale teapot, but instead of tea it held a glossy blue liquid. The further Fran went, the more glass domes and tubes and bronze holders and wooden pedestals she saw. Occasionally she spotted a professor or a student observing one closely before scribbling something into a notebook and hurrying back inside the towers.

Fran looked up at these towers all around her. At the tops of some of them were spinning cups that turned slowly, and some had bronze griffins set atop bronze crosses. They all creaked and groaned intermittently, turning softly at each gust of wind. It was then that Fran realized she didn’t quite know what the School of Storms and Skies focused on. Yes, storms and skies were in the name, but how does one study storms? How does one record the skies? What purpose did all these instruments serve?

"Ms Norris."

She turned her head at the sound of the Professor's voice. It wasn't the first time she had seen him. All the Head Professors were prolific in Arcania. Gabriel Zeller of Flora and Fauna was instantly recognizable by his fiery red hair, drooping moustache, and beard waxed into a neat point. His deep green scholar's cloak had a permanent flowery perfume. Delia Sasso was the tall, white-haired Head Professor of Steel and Iron, who seemed to enjoy wearing armoured shoulder pads over her grey cloak. The School of Health and Wellbeing was headed by a set of triplets - Florence, Grace, and Darcy Lone, all raven-black from head to toe, but for the stark white of their cloaks and built-in masks for when dealing with potentially infectious diseases. These were the most prominent Schools to have survived the Council's purge. Some had been forced to close, their gates sealed up with padlocks the size of human torsos. The School of Dreams and Omens was one, and the old Head Professor Percula Muse had been whisked away and locked up in Greatlight, along with all the scholars below her. The same occurred to the School of Law and Justice. The Head Professor Karim Lau had joined Percula in a cell in Greatlight.

For all Fran knew, they were already dead. Their trials could have been done and dusted within an hour. Or perhaps they were still in Greatlight, thirty years later. Fran tried to calculate how old they would be. Sixties, maybe seventies. She wasn't sure. It felt as though the Schools had never existed. Their empty skeletal structures were given a safe distance by the students. Some said they were bad luck, or they were haunted, or cursed. Fran just thought they were lonely, eerily so. She was about to find out that the Storms and Skies had been alarmingly close to being shut down and left desolate too.

Banjo let her into a nearby tower, into a small boxed-off space, closing the grate behind them. He nodded at the boy outside, who nodded back and began pulling the rope beside him. Fran's stomach lurched as her and Banjo were gradually winched upwards, and upwards, and upwards. It was a few minutes before her ears began to pop. And yet, they were still rising higher. The cage rattled, the stones in the wall filed past. Banjo spoke over the sounds, striking up a casual conversation. Fran gave her replies in a polite, friendly manner. She liked him, seeing as he was an associate of her father, and her father didn't associate with people who he believed to be in any way harmful. Before he had left he had embraced her warmly before taking her by the shoulders and reminding her that she should doubt all those around her but herself, and that any feeling of discomfort or unease in the presence of another person should be listened to. Then he had kissed her on the forehead and left for his boat. Fran had shed some tears, although she had tried to convince herself that she was old enough to live her own life now. Still, she missed him and she missed her home, and every now and then it was so strong all she could do was lie on her bed and hug a cushion to herself. Cry it out, as her father would say. Emotions are a powerful human tool.

“The world is a strange place today," said Banjo, his hands behind his back, his round belly proud and centre. His bright words jerked her from her daydreams. "A dangerous place. Much more dangerous than when I was your age. Back then it was originality and innovation that was prized in a student. Now it’s memory and repetition. The more hollow a student is, the further they’ll be allowed to go.”

“That doesn’t sound very fair,” said Fran.

“It’s not very fair. It’s not fair at all. But the Discovery changed everything. It changed human nature at its core. Or maybe human nature had always been so violent, so greedy, and the Discovery allowed this to be shown.”

Fran spoke quietly. “I don’t believe that.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t believe that. I don’t believe human nature is inherently cruel.”

“Perhaps it’s not. There’s no way of knowing." The cage was beginning to slow, but it was still moving, still moving, passing floor after floor. "The only thing I know for a fact is that it only takes one person with a bad nature to spoil the rest of us. It only takes one drop of poison to make the wine deadly.”

Fran refused to look down at the faraway ground. “But there’s antidotes.”

Banjo looked at her and smiled. “So there are. Are you like your father? Do you know all about poisons and antidotes?”

“Not to the same extent. I never liked the forests in Gravehearth. They’re a little… unsettling.”

“Isn’t everything about Gravehearth unsettling?” he japed. “You wanted to attend the School of Flora and Fauna, didn’t you? Was it for the flora?”

“No. No, it was for the fauna, actually. I'd heard a lot about the animals they keep there.” She glanced about. “I’ve never heard much about this School, though.”

“That’s because we had to change our name not too long ago,” he said. The bitterness curdled in his voice. “Lost a lot of what we had studied. Historic documents. Absolutely historic.”

“Oh. What were you beforehand?”

He lowered his voice to a whisper, as if there was a possibility they were being listened to, even in their rattling cage. “The School of Seas and Skies.”

They finally stopped rising. In front of them was a flat wooden floor, with a few steps visible going up into the wall beside them.

“You studied the seas?” whispered Fran.

“Yes. Yes, we studied the seas. We studied how they acted, we studied their patterns, we studied what lived within it. We’re not allowed to do so anymore.” He opened the cage door and let her out first before following. “We still study the skies, however. The stars. The moons, clouds, winds. And most importantly, the weather. Past and Future require a weather report everyday, twice a day. They even demand that we try and foretell the weather.”

“Foretell it?” Fran blinked before following him to the stairs. “Is that even possible?”

“Not yet. Everything that’s possible was once impossible, though, wasn’t it? And aren’t we here to make the impossible possible? Really, I don't believe anything is impossible. There is a way for everything impossible to be made possible, and it's up to us to discover that way, that road, that path to the possible.” He led her upwards and upwards, around and around the stone steps. His voice rose and fell jauntily. Every now and then a window appeared, and the beacon of Greatlight flashed like a lighthouse over the sea of buildings below. “The weather knows all about making the impossible possible, and making the possible impossible. Winds can tear roofs off houses, waves can smash through rock as if it were the flimsiest glass in existence. It should be possible to sail the seas, shouldn't it? Well the weather can make that impossible, very very quickly. And the weather can be very… indicative of things to come, Francesca. It’s very important that we learn how to read it. It might be the most important thing of all some day.”

She raised an eyebrow at his weighted words. “Can I ask why?”

Banjo spoke after a few moments of contemplative silence. He was huffing a bit from his walk up the steps, large man as he was. “Warnings come in many forms. Communication can be most powerful without words. But here, you’ll learn all about it. And most importantly, you'll learn to understand it." He continued on upwards. They had to be nearing the top of the tower. Their ears would be popping soon. "Do you know what colour the sky is?"

"Is that a trick question?"

"Yes." He laughed, finally coming to a halt beside an imposing set of double doors. "The sky is not blue, as many think. It's black, Francesca. Black and endless. It's simultaneously the emptiest space we know, while also being the fullest. Does that make sense?"

Francesca was beginning to realize that Banjo seemed to enjoy throwing ideas and questions about, juggling them like a jester does batons. "...Not really?"

Banjo smiled, his grandiose moustachio twitching. "Excellent. Come inside."

He pushed open the double doors. They creaked and squealed. When they came to a halt, they let out an echoing thunk. Fran stepped inside, her head tilting all the way back, a sudden wave of awe rising through her, making her eyes bright and glittery.

The roof was domed, made of a glass that must have only recently been polished. It was as if there was no glass at all, it was so clean. The sky was a brilliant blue, the only thing visible through the dome. Fran felt as if she was entirely alone up here. There was no Arcania, no Council, no world at all but for her and the sky above. The room itself was tall, and had two higher levels that circled the walls, all interconnected by iron staircases. She and Banjo had come in on the highest level. In the centre of the room, starting on the lowest floor and ending just below the glass of the dome, was the largest telescope Fran had ever laid eyes on. She couldn't possibly have even imagined a telescope of such size. It was so large that she suddenly realized that she and Banjo must have been circling it on the way up the stairs, that the past three staircases had all led into this one observatory.

"This is our most important astronomy tower," said Banjo proudly, as if he had built it all from scratch with his own bare hands. "The Eye of the Sky. And the telescope is our most powerful telescope so far. And the largest. We call it the Eye's Eye. Since it's already in the Eye of the Sky. If anything, the Eye's Eye is more of an Eye than the Eye of the Sky. But life is full of little complications, isn't it?"

Fran hardly heard him. She was too busy watching the scholars all around her, in their blue-shaded cloaks, scribbling notes down and using complex-looking weather instruments out on the wide balcony she could see across the giant room. Beyond this balcony, the city looked small, unimportant. "Will I be learning here?"

"No. Oh, no, not yet. You haven't even gotten familiar with the sky yet. But I like showing my new students the Eye's Eye. Their reactions always remind me to be grateful for where I am, to remember that this place is exciting, and deserving of awe." Banjo gestured for her to follow him back through the door. "But no, you won't be learning here. You'll be learning in the Pit."

Fran pulled a face; it didn't sound quite as grand as the Eye of the Sky. "The... Pit?"

He grinned, little eyes twinkling. "You'll like it. I promise."

* * *

Ricky felt as if he had only just closed his eyes when he was woken up again. Some time must have passed, he was sure of it. The moon had drifted further through the murky depths of the sky, and its glow filtered in through the gaps of the curtains in a way it hadn't before he had fallen asleep. At first he wasn't sure what had woken him up. The room was silent but for the oddly heavy breathing coming from the bed. He sat upright, drawing his blanket around his bare shoulders. He had found it difficult enough to fall asleep once already. He was only going to find it more difficult this time. He hated sleeping alone.

A strange whimpering sound made him straighten up in surprise. He heard the creak of bedsprings, a sudden rustle of sheets. Then another groan, another whimper, like a dog being beat. Ricky whispered into the darkness of the room.

"Tinsley?"

There was a silence. Ricky's ears strained to hear anything in the space around him. A few muttered words came from the bed, inaudible, pained. Ricky stood up, still holding his blanket around his shoulders.

"Tinsley? What's wrong?"

The whimpering didn't slow. It was growing louder, bit by bit, more manic, more desperate. Ricky hurried over the cold floorboards to the bed, staring down at the darkness of it. He could smell sweat rising off the sheets. Tinsley was muttering between his whines, but the words weren't distinguishable. Ricky could only grasp the emotions of them; pain, terror, hopelessness. It was a highly unpleasant miasma of feelings to be witnessing. The bed gave a sudden hard shake, and Tinsley cried out in his sleep, loud enough to make Ricky jump in shock.

"Tinsley!" Ricky climbed onto the bed, feeling for him, finding the sweat-soaked sheets wrapped tight around him. "Wake up!"

Tinsley's voice went quiet, replaced by the sound of panted, shaking breaths that made the bed shudder. Ricky could just about make out the gleam of Tinsley's eyes now, wide and petrified, fixed on Ricky. The covers were drawn up over his chin, held in place by his fist. His face glistened with sweat, his hair stuck to his skin with it. Ricky swallowed, unsure of what to do. Tinsley was still staring at him as if he was a threat, entirely still, eyes unblinking. More animal than human. Ricky was almost afraid to touch him. He opted for words instead.

"What were you dreaming about?"

Tinsley didn't reply. He didn't respond in any way at all. Just watched.

"It sounded like it wasn't very... nice," said Ricky, still uncertain of how to handle the situation. "Do you have bad dreams a lot? I used to have them as a child. Not as bad as this, but still bad enough that I couldn't go back to sleep." Still no response. "I used to have someone tell me a story. It helped me go to sleep. I think I can remember it. Do you want to hear it?"

After a silent moment Tinsley gave the subtlest of nods, still unsettled, his nightmare still clinging to his mind like a dying man clings to life.

Ricky smiled, a small one. Then he settled onto the bed, and he began. "Under the sea, there's more land like this one. It's where we go when we die. It's a softer, kinder place than here. People stay young forever. We only know of its existence because of a man who visited it hundreds of years ago. He was a great warrior, and had defeated many of the gods' enemies in battle. When he had defeated the final enemy, a cruel king who wanted this land for himself, he was welcomed back to the land under the sea. But there was one obstacle; he had fallen in love with an earth-bound woman, the daughter of the cruel king. So he told her he would only visit the gods to accept their thanks, and then he would return to her. But the gods lied to him. They said he could visit the land under the sea, but they did not tell him that time works differently there. He stayed with them for a day and a night, and enjoyed a feast in his honour for defeating the king. But when he returned to the land, he found that a hundred years had passed. The woman he had loved was dead. She would not be welcomed under the sea, as she had the king's blood in her veins. When he asked the gods why they had lied to him, they told him that he had been created for a purpose, and that purpose was to defeat their enemies. His purpose was not to fall in love." He distractedly reached out a hand, brushing Tinsley's damp hair back off his face, as Lucy used to do for Ricky when he had a nightmare, and what he used to do for Anton. "If they had let him fall in love, many lives would have been changed. The warrior was distraught. He refused to return to the land under the sea. He didn't want to be young forever, not with his lover dead. But one night while he slept, the waters rose and stole him away, returning him to the sea. He was to be punished for his defiance. He was to be made again and again, and put forth to battle the gods' enemies for eternity."

"I don't like this story," said Tinsley quietly, his eyes less frightened now. "It's not comforting."

"But," continued Ricky, "he was also promised an eventual reward for doing so. His lover would be made again too, and they would be allowed to remain together."

"Then what was the point of the gods taking her away."

"To remind the warrior that he has a purpose to fulfill for the gods before he can live for himself. Just as we all do."

Tinsley shook his head, still lying down. "I wouldn't trust the gods. They lied to him more than once."

"Of course you wouldn't trust them," said Ricky dryly. "You don't trust anyone."

Tinsley sat upright with a tired sigh, burying his face in his hands. He wiped a hand across his mouth, taking a deep breath and letting it out again, grounding himself back in reality. "Thanks for waking me."

"The sounds you were making were annoying me," joked Ricky, giving him a slight nudge. "Gods forbid you think I did it out of the goodness of my own heart."

Tinsley didn't look at him. His eyes were downcast. Ricky pressed his lips together in a line.

"Why don't you ever smile."

Tinsley turned his head, looking at him sidelong. "What do you mean."

"I've never seen you smile. Not once. It's good to smile. It's good for your heart."

"I don't feel like smiling."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not like you. Things don't fall into place for me. I have to fight for what I want. And most of the time I don't win."

Ricky didn't quite know what to say to this. The more he thought about it, the more he realized it was true. "...I haven't had to fight for anything _yet._ But I'll have to one day."

"You won't win."

Ricky blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You've lived the last thirty years of your life sheltered on your island, away from all this. I've been living in this for my entire life. You have no idea what it's like. You can't win against an enemy who you don't know."

"My enemy doesn't know me either."

"Don't be so sure. The Council knows everything before anyone else does." Tinsley pulled back the covers and got out of bed, moving stiffly, his hands rubbing at his lower back. "I'm going to get water."

"I'll come with."

"Don't come with me," said Tinsley, exasperated. "Just don't. I'll get you a cup if you really want."

Ricky remained on the bed, hugging his blanket around himself. He spoke firmly, a little heated. "You know, I don't hate you, Tinsley. I think I could actually like you, if you weren't so- so cold, and rude. You push everyone away from you and then blame them for the way they respond. Of course no one's going to be nice to you if you're an asshole to them. Maybe I've never had to fight for anything because people will _give me_ what I want, because I'm nice to them and give them no reason to refuse me. Have you ever thought of just being nice? You might find it makes your life a whole lot easier."

Tinsley stood in the doorway, painted in shadows. He had listened. Ricky was sure he had. There was no way not to have heard. But Tinsley just closed the door and left. His footsteps receded down the hall, down the stairs. Ricky let out a frustrated sigh, flopping back onto the bed. Tinsley was impossible to read. He was a painting that showed a different face depending on what angle it was viewed from. He was a mirage that was so close, so close, until Ricky tried to touch him, and then he vanished without a trace, without an explanation. Ricky had heard of such sightings at sea. But not on land. And not every day, every night. It made Ricky want to scream at him, demand that he show himself fully. But force would only make Tinsley harden his walls. If they could be any harder.

Ricky went back to the couch and lay down in a huff, his back to the room. After a few minutes he heard Tinsley's footsteps returning. The door opened quietly and shut again. There was a small silence. Then Tinsley's footsteps drew near, crossing the room. Ricky heard a cup being placed down on the floor beside the couch. Then Tinsley stood for a moment before turning away and going back to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had hella writers block writing this chapter so if stuff feels off then dont worry i'll return sometime in the future and correct anything weird (like spelling or grammar yknow)


	16. Some Sort of Hysteria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Do you think you can long for something that scares you half to death?"_ \- Sarah Perry

Ricky stood in a damp forest. The grass was dark and flattened by the rain, the smell of which filled the air. Ivy clung to deep brown bark, and moss smothered the stones where they slept. Flowers grew in patches, some peeking out from amid tree roots, some sporadically thrown about the grass. Hydrangeas, larkspurs, anemones. Their perfume was a soft undercurrent to the smell of rain, making the air thick and full. Ricky passed them by with careful steps. There was a lone daffodil among the rest of the flowers. It was an odd sight. He crouched down beside it, but hesitated to touch it. Its presence unnerved him somewhat. 

“Do you know who you are?”

Ricky didn’t jump at the sound of the voice. It was too calm and soft to warrant fright. Instead he just straightened up and turned to face the man who had spoken. It wasn’t the first time he had seen this man. He was watching Ricky over his half-moon spectacles, his gold skeletal hands holding his velvet cloak closed. Over the top of this cloak a starched white shirt collar was visible. Ricky wasn't sure how he knew it was a shirt. It wasn't any type of shirt that he himself had seen before. Ricky looked at the man, unwavering.

“I’m me.”

“And who is that?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m not finished.”

The man smiled at this. “You are. You always have been. From the moment you were brought into this world. Even before then.”

Ricky grasped his meaning instantly. “This isn’t my first life.”

“Far from your first. But you’re a little different every time.”

“How many lives have I lived?”

“I don’t know. They began long before we started to keep note of them. Sometimes we didn’t find you for many years.”

“We? Who’s we?”

The man smiled again; it was a pleasant smile. “You’ll hear of us one day.”

Ricky moved towards him, yet got no closer. The grass passed by underfoot, yet remained in place. “But who am I?”

“I think you know already.”

Ricky did know already. He had always known. “I’m the warrior from the stories.”

“The Prophet, the Warrior, the Reckoning. Yes. So we believe.”

“And have you ever been wrong before?”

“No. Although, there is always a first time, isn’t there? There can be many first times. You should know that well by now.”

Somewhere in the woods, a bird cried out. It sounded distant. Ricky stared in its direction. 

“So what am I supposed to do? Where do I go?”

“Forwards. Keep going forwards. But stay sharp. You will have memories. You will recognize things from long ago. But memory can be deceitful, it can adapt to fit what you want to remember. You are not alone inside your head."

_Bang bang bang bang!_

Ricky jumped awake, his heart racing. He fumbled to remember where he was. He was on a couch, wrapped in a blanket, and there was a browning apple core on the floor beside him, along with a cup of water. The banging noise was louder now. It rattled inside his skull. It was coming from downstairs. Someone was hammering on the door to the house. Ricky tugged on his shirt, flinching in alarm as Tinsley strode to a halt in front of him. He was already fully-dressed, his coat on and buttoned up, his weapons belt fitted around his waist.

"What did you do?" he demanded over the sound of the front door shaking in its hinges.

Ricky immediately knew. His face reddened. "I didn't do anything."

"What did you do!" shouted Tinsley, taking him by the collar of his shirt and pulling him halfway off the couch. "Tell me!"

Ricky swallowed hard. "I talked to some people on the beach yesterday."

"About what. Ricky! About what!"

"...The gods."

Tinsley had known it. From the first signs of commotion from downstairs, he had known it. Ricky just couldn't keep his idiotic thoughts to himself. But hearing the confession from Ricky's mouth sparked a whole new flame of anger within him. "Get dressed. Get dressed now!"

The sound of splintering wood and metal came from downstairs. A cry rang out. Tinsley couldn't tell whether or not it was Mayeda or Anita. It didn't matter. He shoved open the window and whistled, high and clear. Once should be enough. Then he moved out into the hallway, coming to a halt at the top of the stairs. The Councillor stood at the bottom, a foot on the first step, a hand on the banister. Her face dropped the moment her eyes landed on him. She had been expecting a short, dark-haired man in a long coat. Not this man.

"Silverbird," she whispered, eyes wide. Her voice rose in alarm, and she backed away into the dining room, calling to the Librarians. "It's the Silverbird! He's here!"

Tinsley decided to skip the stairs. He took a flying jump off the top step, and landed with a neat tuck and roll into the dining room, skidding to a halt on one knee. He drew his rapier, spinning it deftly so that the blade pointed upwards. The Librarian behind Tinsley swung his spear towards his head. Ricky called out in alarm from where he was halfway down the stairs, pulling his coat on. He needn’t have worried. Tinsley’s hand flashed up, catching the spear below its blade. The impact jarred his arm all the way to his shoulder. Then, using the crafted golden hilt of his sword as a covering for his knuckles, he punched the Librarian across the face, hard enough to floor him instantly. Ricky had never seen a person fall so swiftly and suddenly to the ground. He was almost certain he saw a few droplets of blood fly into the air. By the time these droplets hit the floor Tinsley had moved onto the second Librarian, kicking him in the chest with such force the man fell back and over the table, landing heavily on the other side, the spear clattering to the wood floor. Anita clapped in delight. The Librarian scrambled to his feet, still winded entirely, and Ricky watched in mute shock as Tinsley vaulted the table and drove the point of his rapier straight through the man’s neck and into the wooden wall behind, pinning him in place like a bag of meat. Anita didn’t clap this time. Her and Mayeda stared with open mouths and wide eyes, mirroring Ricky’s own face. Tinsley drew his rapier from the Librarian’s neck, dodging the squirt of blood as he sprinted out the door and into the village, snatching his musket from beside the door as he went. Of course, thought Ricky. The Councillor had vanished.

Ricky took off after him, although he knew he had no hope of keeping pace. He had never considered himself unfit before then. He followed Tinsley through the dirt paths between buildings as best as he could, yet he only ever glimpsed a flash of blue disappearing around the far corner, a gleam of sunlight off the polished musket he carried. Tinsley was moving so swiftly he hardly left a footprint in the dirt. Ricky's heart was pounding against his ribs, his lungs burned, but he didn't slow. Not until he turned onto the next path and saw the hem of Tinsley's coat vanish over the edge of the roof above him. Ricky gave up then, hands on his hips as he fought to catch his breath. He didn't even know how Tinsley had gotten onto the roof so quickly. He took a brief private moment to try and jump up and catch the edge of the roof. He failed miserably.

Tinsley scaled the roofs, his breath burning through his body, his arms complaining with the strain of pulling himself up from roof to roof, but it was his favourite feeling in the world. He was battle-bred, this was where he was supposed to be. He could almost hear the sounds; voices shouting orders, gunfire, boots light and fast against the ground, the clash of metal against metal, and in the sky the whipping of feathers and raucous shrieks as griffins battled for the skies, their riders bold and brilliant in their coloured coats. Tinsley clung onto this memory as he climbed to the highest vantage point he could, the roof of a three-story building. He placed a foot on the chimney for balance, swinging the musket up to brace it against his shoulder, feeling the warm wood against the side of his face as he looked down the barrel. The cool breeze ruffled his hair, brushing it back out of his eyes. Overhead he heard the familiar rustle of wind through feathers, and Sky passed by like a silver bullet, her target in sight. The Councillor was galloping full-tilt towards the next town to raise the alarm. Her wispy purple cloak spilled out behind her. She was going too quickly for Tinsley to get a clear shot. He waited until she crested the next hill, until her silhouette was clear against the sky behind her. This was the last chance he would get to take the shot. Thankfully, he never needed more than one chance. All he had to do was kill her in one shot, and Sky would take care of the body, carry it far away to some remote valley where it would never be found. He let out the breath he had been holding. Then he pulled the trigger.

The air cracked in half. That was what it sounded like to Ricky. He cried out in alarm at the alien sound, hands clamped over his ears, his body reflexively ducking to get away from it. It only sounded once. The silence afterwards was tense, as if waiting for another crack. It had sounded like a giant whip, or a tree being snapped clear in half with giant hands. Ricky took his hands from his ears, glancing around in a panic for the source of the sound. He heard nothing. Then came a strange scraping sound from above him. He looked up, swiftly looking away as particles of dirt fell into his eyes. It was Tinsley, climbing back down, slipping and sliding down the roof slates. He dropped off the edge of the building, landing lightly on the ground, although even watching him do such a thing made Ricky’s knees hurt.

“What _are_ you?” said Ricky in amazement. “Some sort of metal man? A Tinman, perhaps?”

Tinsley wasn’t amused. His face was furious, his eyes glittering with rage. “You are nothing - _nothing_ \- but trouble. Do you understand what you almost did with your- your-” He fumbled for the correct word, his hands reaching as if to grab Ricky by the throat and throttle him on the spot. “-your _stupidity!”_

Ricky drew away a step, eyeing Tinsley warily. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Oh, you did. You really did this time.” Tinsley’s jaw clenched and unclenched, along with his fists. “You told me you were never disciplined as a child for doing something stupid. Well that’s about to change. Right now.”

Ricky hardly had time to blink before Tinsley had taken him by the scruff of his coat and began dragging him back towards the centre of the village. Ricky dug his heels into the dirt, pulling away, but Tinsley held fast, yanking him along like a dog on a leash.

“Get off me!” Ricky felt a sudden fear in his gut, making his pulse spike. “Get off!”

Tinsley pulled him close, so sharply Ricky’s feet skidded against the ground. “Have you ever suffered consequences for anything you’ve done? Anything? Ever?”

Ricky didn’t respond. Tinsley had him by the lapels of his coat, making the coat suddenly feel more akin to a cage than an item of clothing. People were watching from their doors now, having come to see what was happening at the sound of gunfire. Well, Tinsley intended to give them a show. He dragged Ricky onward into the small square, ignoring his furious curses and struggles. Ricky struck him in the arm with a flailing fist. Tinsley let go of his coat, turned to him, and punched him directly in the face. It was a clear blow with a sweeping follow-through. Ricky dropped to the ground instantly, blood filling his mouth. The sound of the villagers gasping in shock was distant in his ringing ears. He rolled onto his front, and the blood leaked from his mouth like sap from a tree, thick and dripping. He could feel it trickling from his nose too. He wiped at it with the back of his hand, his heavy breaths causing the blood to bubble around his nostrils. He spat out what he could. The taste remained on his tongue, metallic and hot.

He pushed himself back onto his knees, his head spinning. People were watching. People were _watching._ Ricky forced himself to his feet, stumbling only a little.

"Get down," said Tinsley fiercely. "And stay down until I say you can get back up."

Ricky took a few breaths, his nose throbbing with pain. Then he spat a mouthful of blood and saliva at the ground in front of Tinsley. A few people put their hands to their mouths in shock. Tinsley looked down his nose at the blood on the ground, thoroughly unimpressed.

"You're a filthy little creature."

Ricky smiled at him, showing reddened teeth. "Careful where you hit me, Tinman. If you want my mouth around your cock you'll want it intact-"

Tinsley struck him across the face, not particularly hard, but sharp, sharp enough to cut off his words. Ricky went to hit him back, throwing himself at him with all the finesse of a rabid cat, hissing and clawing included. Tinsley caught him by the wrist, twisting his arm behind his back so quickly and tightly that Ricky cried out. He felt Tinsley's fingers tangle in his hair and wrench his head right back.

“I could break every damn bone in your arm right now,” muttered Tinsley. “One more word. One more word and I’ll do it.”

Ricky could hardly speak he was so furious. It was an anger he’d never felt before, an anger that was drawn from a part of himself he hadn’t met yet. He drove his elbow back into Tinsley’s midriff. Tinsley hardly reacted but for a harsh, inconvenienced exhale. He twisted Ricky’s arm tighter, hearing him let out a gasp of pain. Tinsley kicked the back of his knee, forcing him to drop down to the dirt.

“Now stay there.”

He’d hardly taken a step away before he heard Ricky scrambling to his feet again. Tinsley half-turned to raise his brows at him in surprise. Perhaps the little man had a bit of grit to him after all.

“I don’t answer to you,” said Ricky, showing a flash of his bloodstained teeth again. He spread his arms, his coat flying back with the movement, and all of a sudden a strange flash of recognition shot through Tinsley’s chest. “I only serve the gods!”

Tinsley listened to him with an odd expression on his face. He glanced upwards at the suddenly overcast sky, before looking back at Ricky. “You’re completely insane.”

“I’ll never die!" Ricky laughed, unnervingly deranged. "Don’t you understand that? Not until I’m done here. Not until I’ve fulfilled my purpose.”

“Your gods are dead. Long dead.” Tinsley swept a hand towards the blue expanse of the ocean beside them. “The sea is empty, Ricky. Nothing holy lies there. The sooner you get that into your head-”

“I am a god!” shouted Ricky with frightful anger. “I am their vessel!”

A few onlookers shared unsettled looks with each other. Tinsley watched Ricky warily. He had never seen him like this, heard him like this. There was a strange maniacal glitter in his black eyes, a feral edge to his smile. The blood that was smeared from his nose down to his chin didn’t help in this regard, although Tinsley had a feeling he would have looked just as demented without it. Tinsley blinked as a few drops of rain hit his face, icy cold. He looked upwards. The clouds were roiling. The sea had turned black, the white froth on top looked hard and rough to touch. It swelled and pulsated, the water pushing up along the sand, far enough to touch the grass. Tinsley wasn’t the only one who noticed. A few people were ushering their families back into their houses, eyeing the sea with fright.

“This land is cursed!” Ricky was still shouting, audible even as the rain began pounding against the ground, turning the dirt to mud. He jabbed a finger into his own chest. “I am the cure! I am the saviour!”

Tinsley drew his rapier, holding it ready by his side. The rain was so heavy it was already soaking through his coat, cold against his skin. He hurriedly pulled his goggles on to keep the water out of his eyes. “Ricky! That’s enough!”

He could hardly see Ricky through the sheets of rain, but he could see him well enough to know that something wasn’t right. Although the rain was sticking Tinsley’s own hair to his head, it wasn’t doing the same to Ricky’s. In fact, Ricky’s wasn’t even reacting to the harsh winds that were tearing through the streets. It seemed to be lifting, the black curls rippling softly, like seaweed underwater. His coat was doing the same, floating, billowing around him. Tinsley took a step back, his eyes wide in alarm. There was a terror in his chest, a familiar terror. He clung onto it to keep himself steady. Ricky’s voice carried through the rain, sharp and fearsome, echoing.

“I am the voice of the gods! I am their truth!”

Tinsley strode forwards. He would put an end to this. He gave his rapier a deft spin, his eyes stuck to Ricky's chest, in which he knew a cold heart beat, but a terrible sound stopped him in his tracks. A deep, bone-shaking roar. Lightning flashed in the thick clouds above, illuminating the sudden night, and he saw it. The sea had risen, up and up and up, a broiling, churning mass. Three gaping holes marked two eyes and a mouth, but that was the only humanoid thing about it. It almost seemed to be in pain, writhing and twisting, the face of it vanishing and remolding itself over and over again. The roaring never stopped, not for a second. It shook the earth and everything on it. Tinsley clamped his hands over his ears, falling to his knees in the mud, squeezing his eyes shut. He wanted Sky. He wanted her to come and get him and take him away, far away, all the way over the Darkwoods and beyond. He’d never come back. He folded over, hands still clamped to his ears. The roaring went on and on and on, and only when his throat started to hurt did he realize his own voice had joined in.

It took him a few minutes to notice the world had gone still. The rain had stopped pouring. The winds had died down. When he dared to lift his gaze he saw that the sea was nothing but the sea again, calm and blue. Only one or two wispy grey clouds remained. He looked about, and saw Ricky on the ground, collapsed on his side. He was still moving, his shoulders convulsing, his face turned away from Tinsley. Without hesitating, Tinsley crawled to him, turning him onto his back. Ricky’s eyes were fluttering wildly, showing their whites. Blood trickled from his nose in a steady flow. His throat worked, his breaths sounded short and viscous.

“Ricky.” Tinsley took him by the jaw, turning his head to face him. “Ricky. Wake up.”

He got no response. Just those fluttering eyes, the sporadic convulsions. Tinsley scooped him up, his legs still a bit unsteady. It wasn’t the first time he had seen Ricky in such a state. He remembered that night in Snow’s End, the way he had screamed and writhed on the floor before fading into unconsciousness. But back then Manda had been nearby with her medical expertise. Here, it was just him, and his hands only knew how to harm.

“Mayeda! Anita!” He carried Ricky to their door, which like all the others, had been locked fast. He kicked it hard. “He’s hurt!”

For a moment he didn’t think they were going to answer. Why should they? But then he heard a bolt slide back, and Mayeda’s face appeared in the crack. She seemed about to refuse them entry, but her eyes found Ricky’s bloodied face, and she changed her mind.

“Hurry.” She opened the door wide enough to let them in. “Bring him upstairs. Quietly.”

* * *

Professor Gabriel Zeller was never entirely present in a room. He found people complicated and difficult to connect with. Most days he would be found wandering the vast maze of greenhouses in the School of Flora and Fauna. The heady scent of the hot, steam-filled greenhouses was his favourite scent in the entire world, to the extent that he had commissioned the scent to be replicated into a perfume that he now doused himself in every morning. The sweet, rich smell helped to ground him whenever he felt overwhelmed. He would bring his wrist to his nose and inhale deeply, and then he would feel steady again. Yet the smell of the perfume was never quite as satisfying as its true origin.

He would spend hours in the greenhouses. He adored the texture of the plants. Some leaves were smooth and waxy, other rough with serrated edges. Some petals were as soft to the touch as velvet. Some felt more akin to rubber. Flowers could communicate, too. He knew they could. Perhaps not with each other (although he wouldn’t rule it out) but definitely to people. And if people knew the meanings of flowers and their colours, they would never need to read or write another letter in their lives. He lightly touched the flowers as he passed down the rows. Anemone, with their pastel hues. They were a sad flower. They meant fading hope, and a feeling of being forsaken. Larkspur looked like fancy folks in ruffled coats. They meant fickleness, haughtiness. Gardenias were one of his favourites to look at, in all their soft moonlit whiteness. They were frequently cited in the old fairytales. They represented a secret love. A bunch of gardenias would be a risqué message indeed. Oh, and hydrangeas! He leaned forwards to breathe in their heavenly scent. They were a difficult flower to grow, and also a difficult flower to interpret. They could express heartfelt emotions, and a gratitude for being understood (was there any sweeter feeling than this?) yet they could also express frigidity and haughtiness. He turned away from them with a flourish of his forest-green cloak, facing the army of bright yellow daffodils behind him. They were brilliant! More brilliant than a thousand suns! A group of daffodils meant rebirth and new beginnings. He plucked one, holding it by its elegant stem, spinning it in the murky light form the greenhouse windows above. A lone daffodil meant misfortune to come. Seeing a single daffodil was a recurring nightmare of his. Oh, he would faint if he saw one in reality!

“Gabriel? Have you listened to a word I’ve said?”

He jumped in fright, spinning back around to face Banjo. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” came the fond response. “I know you have a tendency to wander off mid-conversation, but I always thought it was more of a mental habit than physical.”

“I feel awfully distracted lately,” said Gabriel, keeping his eyes on the daffodil he was spinning between his two palms. He made sure not to crush it. Daffodil stems were so fragile. “Flowers are something to look up to, aren’t they? How delicate they are, yet wherever you go you’ll find them.”

“Mm. Yes.”

Banjo watched him wander off again. Gabriel was more distracted some days than others. Some days he would hum non-stop, only because he liked the feeling of it in his throat. He would clack his teeth to replicate percussion, and whistle for the strings. Those were the days when there was no use in trying to get him to focus. Banjo had a feeling that the biggest, most complex, most exotic forests in the world resided within Gabriel’s mind. He also knew that Professor Darcy Lone was eager to get him in for a talk. But Gabriel wasn’t interested in sharing what was in his mind. It was for him and him alone, it seemed.

"I'm calling a meeting. About the year to come. You know how important it is for all of us to be on the same page."

"Yes," came the vague response. "Have you ever been to Gravehearth? I hear they have the most wonderful plants. Dark, dark things. Too poisonous to grow here, in a greenhouse. Would you say the Council would let me leave if I asked? Oh, just for the day." Gabriel's voice grew distant as he wandered onward. "Only a day is all I ask."

Banjo watched him go. There wasn't much he could do to get Gabriel's attention, short of being rude. So he moved onto the next Professor.

Professor Delia had white hair that reached her belt, which she tied into a plait and wound into a thick bundle atop her head. Her father had been from the north, and her mother from the south. Because of this she was as tall as any northerner, but without the broad chest and shoulders. Yet she was by no means slim and delicate; her arms were roped with muscle, and she could out-lift anyone within the city. She was the only person who could lift Banjo clear off the ground like a rag doll, and she seemed to enjoy doing so, simply lifting him off his feet and plonking him back down with a delighted laugh whenever she passed him by. He found her in the main forge of Iron and Steel, where she seemed to be teaching a class. Silhouetted against the fiery furnace, she looked positively fearsome. Rumour had it that the Council once tried to arrest her for speaking against them, and she had crushed the Councillor’s skull like a month-old melon. The story most likely wasn’t true, but Banjo had no reason to doubt whether or not she could crush a person’s skull. He was glad they were on the same side.

“It’s very short notice,” she said to him, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Banjo was near melting point in the oppressive heat of the forge. “I have a private project I’m working on that I was looking forward to finishing. A battle-axe. Double-sided. You’ve never seen anything like it. Can’t be wielded by a normal person.” She flexed her arms with a grin. “Made for me only, tiny man! Could cleave a horse in two.” She let her arms drop back to her sides. “Not that I would ever harm a horse. They’ve never done anything wrong.” She leaned in then, with a flash of white teeth and a wink. “But let me loose in a certain School around here and I’ll show you exactly how good of an axe it is.”

She let out a robust laugh, a laugh straight from the north. Banjo smiled slightly; he never quite knew how to respond to her. 

“But you’ll be there?”

* * *

“I have surgeries scheduled all through the evening,” came the fretful response. “I’ve promised some people I’ll look at their pets. A few injuries. They said they tried to get in touch with Gabriel but haven’t had a response.” Florence didn’t look up from where she was carefully sterilizing her surgical equipment. Lots of blades, lots of needles, lots of scissor-like tools. “Have you heard from him at all? I know about animal _anatomy_ but not so much about their _behaviour_. Gabriel would know more.”

“I was speaking with him earlier. He’s a bit distant at the moment. And you know how he is about the smell of blood. He hates it.”

“Does anyone like how it smells”?” She looked at him with her deep black eyes. “I hope not.”

“Oh, you know how he is about sensory things.”

* * *

“I don’t, actually. He refuses to let me speak to him.” Darcy pushed his chair across his bright, sunlit office. It was a long, narrow room, and he had specially requested a chair with wheels in order to navigate it with minimal effort. Delia had provided said chair. “And I don’t view him as an experiment, I promise I don’t. Can you tell him that for me? I’m just curious about his-”

“Brain,” said Banjo flatly.

“-mind,” corrected Darcy, pointing a finger at the ceiling as if to say, _so there!_ “He has a very unique mind. I don’t care for brains. That’s Florence’s department.”

“You want to pick his mind apart because he’s different.”

“You make it sound bad.”

“I think that’s because it _is_ bad!”

“I could help him!”

“He’s never asked for help,” said Banjo with a frown. Darcy had a way of being too analytical about things, forgetting to see the human behind the analytics. “Leave him be.”

Darcy got up from his chair. He was just like his two sisters, taller than average, with the sweeping white and silver cloak of Health and Wellbeing. These were the only things the triplets had in common. Florence was fretful and on edge, unless she was in her surgery. Then there was no breaking her focus. Darcy was easy and laid-back, fascinated by the mind, and with a tendency to get over-excited about potential concepts that came to him at the drop of a hat. Grace was quiet and calm, and rarely spoke more than ten words a day. She would be happy to speak none, if she had the option. Just her and her thick encyclopedias and vials and tubes and dishes of medical substances. Pain relief drops to help you sleep, balms that would get rid of a rash within an hour. Oh, yes, another thing the triplets had in common was that they all had brilliant minds. It wasn't everyday a School had three Head Professors, instead of the usual one.

Banjo had no luck getting a face-to-face meeting with Grace, but if her siblings were going to come, then he had to assume she would attend too. The annual meeting of Head Professors was too valuable of an event to waste. It was the only time in which they could freely communicate with each other and not have the Council demanding why. But every year the Professors seemed more distant, more involved with their respective Schools. They probably hardly noticed. The Council was crafty like that. Their tactic was divide-and-conquer, and they utilized this tactic efficiently. But Banjo had some news for them, news that he had been hiding from the daily weather reports sent to the Council.

The humidity around the city had been creeping up bit-by-bit over the past few years. Rainfall was heavier and more frequent. Deep grey clouds sometimes hovered on the horizon. But it was all slow, too slow for the average human to notice. The changing weather was coming south, slowly, spreading over the land inch by inch, just as the Council had. Banjo wondered if, soon enough, the hunters would become the hunted, and whether the true hunter had time to separate the good from the bad, or whether it would eat all of them whole.

* * *

Ricky opened his eyes, slowly. The face above him changed, blended from one into another, but always the same, always the same. He recognized it in all its forms. Finally, it settled, just as the sound of voices reached Ricky’s ears again. Clear blue eyes, soft lashes. He touched Tinsley’s face where it hovered above him.

“You’re the lover,” he murmured, and he lightly ran a fingertip down the bridge of Tinsley’s nose, stopping at the tip. “You’re my lover. Don’t you recognize me?”

Tinsley ignored him, instead lifting his head and speaking to someone else. “He’s awake. Still talking nonsense, but at least he’s talking.”

“You know me.” Ricky slipped a weak hand around the back of Tinsley’s neck, fingers pushing under the high neck of his under-jumper. “Say you know me.”

Tinsley promptly removed his hand from his neck. “I’d rather not.”

“How is he?” Mayeda appeared in his field of vision, wary. “Back to normal?”

“As normal as he was. Which wasn’t particularly normal in the first place.”

Ricky smiled at him, and again he touched his face, gently. “I’m glad you’re not a woman this time.” Then he went limp, his head falling back against the sheets, his eyes rolling. 

Tinsley stood back, letting Mayeda prop Ricky’s head up more comfortably on the pillow. Then she looked at Tinsley and said: “When he wakes, he has to go.”

“I know.”

“Anita has a small boat on a dock further down the shore. About a two hour’s ride on horseback. It’s painted red. Use it to send him home.”

It was exactly what Tinsley had come here to do. It was exactly why he had traveled with Ricky in the first place. To find a boat and ship him off back home in it. “I will.”

She observed Ricky from a safe distance, as if he could explode at any second. “He’s unsafe to have around. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“He has until dawn. If he wakes before then, you leave before then. If he’s not awake by then, wake him anyway and go.”

Tinsley nodded. She wasn’t being unkind. She was simply being careful. “I’ll stay with him. You can go to bed.”

“I’m not sure if I’ll be able to sleep." Mayeda looked at Ricky where he slept. “He could change the world if you let him. But it’s hard to say whether it would be for better or worse.”

Tinsley sat on the stool beside the bed, lacing his fingers together, elbows on his knees. “It was just a freak storm. Nothing more. It happens.”

“It’s dangerous to lie to yourself about such things.”

“It isn’t the first time he’s had an attack like this,” persisted Tinsley. “He had one similar a few weeks ago. It’s some sort of hysteria.”

Mayeda pressed her lips in a line. “I’ll try to believe that.”

 _I’ll try too._ “Thank you, Mayeda. For letting us stay here. I’m sorry we put you in danger.”

“You didn’t. He did.”

Tinsley looked back at Ricky’s sleeping face. “I know.” When she had left and shut the door behind her, he closed his eyes and sighed wearily. “Ricky. You absolute idiot.”

He watched Ricky's face for a while then. He had known that Ricky was a good-looking man - he had known it since he laid eyes on him - but he had never truly let himself acknowledge the full extent of Ricky's beauty. It was almost unnatural in its smooth marmoreal lines, as if he had been crafted by some higher being who knew exactly what a perfect human should look like. Even the shaping of his throat looked carved from marble. It was hard to believe that this was the man who had struck such fear into Tinsley's heart, fear like he had never felt before. An awful, staggering fear. It had made him burn from the inside out, lit by a thousand stars. Tinsley couldn't remember the last time he had felt so very alive. Even now he couldn't quite recall the feeling. He couldn't quite convince himself that Ricky had done what he had done. And what had he done? Shouted and ranted in the rain? Was that truly worthy of any awe at all? But no, there had been something in the air, something that had made the watching people flee into their houses, something that had made Tinsley draw his rapier like he was planning on having to run Ricky through with it on the spot. A most unnatural danger. Or perhaps it was the most natural danger of all.

As for Ricky's floating hair, and the face in the sea? Tinsley did what any sane individual would do; he made excuses for it. He didn't delve into specifics. He cast the thoughts aside with all the rest he refused to acknowledge. He had quite a collection of them now. He had been collecting them all his life, like an elderly person collects antiques just to let them gather dust in the attic. Some nights he would sit with them, wondering whether any of them were worth anything, wondering why he still held onto them. All they were were regrets. Images of how he should have acted. Songs of what he should have said. The attic in his mind was overflowing, his antiqued memories were scattered around the rest of his head, making it more and more difficult to think straight. He stumbled over them, accidentally sent them crashing down around him when he least needed them to.

The room had grown darker, night swiftly deepening out the window. Tinsley took the unlit candle from the bedside table, crossing to one of the burning candles on the wall and touching the wicks together, watching how the flame spread from one to the other. He liked that about candles. He liked how they could share a flame without either of them growing dim as a result. He carried it back to the bed, sheltering its flame, and set it back down on the table. Ricky seemed to react to the additional light, mumbling, his eyes moving behind their lids. Then they opened, gradually. They looked at Tinsley where he was seated beside the bed. Ricky smiled sleepily.

"Not the first time."

Tinsley raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"

"Not the first time I've woken up to you like this."

"Can you remember what you did this time?"

"A little. I can only ever remember a little. I can remember how I felt."

"And how did you feel?"

Ricky's gaze wandered as he considered it. "I felt powerful."

Tinsley studied his sleep-bleary face. "Mm."

"I have such strange thoughts sometimes," mumbled Ricky, his hand drifting to rest on Tinsley's knee. "I don't think they're mine."

Tinsley fought the urge to place his own hand on Ricky's. He spoke quietly. "You have to go home."

A pause. "No. I have to keep going forwards."

"The Council will know you're here before dawn breaks. You aren't safe here anymore."

"I was never truly safe. I don't care."

"You'll be a target for death now. And gods know you haven't the remotest idea of how to defend yourself."

Ricky looked at him with his big eyes. "You could defend me."

"There'd be no point in that. I'm a target for death too. I have been for the past two years."

"Then teach me how to defend myself." Ricky propped himself up on his elbows, suddenly awake and eager. "Teach me how to use a sword like you do."

Tinsley spared a soft laugh. "It would take years, little man. Years that neither of us have to spare."

"Teach me how to use a pistol."

"Absolutely not. I wouldn't even let you hold one."

Ricky sat back against the headboard, drawing his covers up to his chest. "But I don't have any way to get home."

"I've found you one."

Ricky blinked at this, oddly hurt. "You really want me to go?"

Tinsley bit on his lip, watching Ricky's face. Then he lowered his gaze and nodded. "You have to go."

"I didn't do anything wrong."

"You did something dangerous. You put everyone in this village at risk. Right and wrong doesn't matter around here. What matters is whether or not the Council accepts or condemns your actions. And I can guarantee yours are condemned."

"I'll show them condemnation," muttered Ricky. "They don't know half of it."

"Are you well enough to ride?"

"Yes. Yes, I feel fine. Just a bit stiff."

"Then we're leaving now."

Ricky let the quiet drag out for a few minutes, just until he believed Tinsley thought himself off the hook. Then he said: “What do you think of what I did?"

Tinsley looked at him. "I don't know."

"Did you see them? The gods? They're with me. They always are."

"No. I didn't see anything."

"You did. I know you did."

Tinsley didn't respond. He picked at the fingertip of one of his gloves, pretending to be entirely distracted by it. Ricky waited for him to reply, to say something, to say anything at all. To simply acknowledge him, to acknowledge the truth. But no, Tinsley seemed to be retreating into the fort of himself again. Ricky spoke carefully.

"What do you want from me?”

Tinsley looked at him, seeming a bit taken aback at the question. “...I don’t know what you mean.”

“You give me such confusing signals. One minute you talk to me like we’re almost friends. Then you ignore me, and act as if I don’t exist. You’re cruel, more often than not. You’ve hit me a lot-”

“You’ve hit me back.”

“-yet you also let me kiss you,” finished Ricky quietly, "and for just a second, you kissed me back.”

Tinsley swallowed hard. “No I didn’t.”

“You did. There’s no point in lying to me about it. I was the only other person there, and I know what I know.”

Tinsley turned his face away, but Ricky caught a glimpse of the trouble in his eyes, saw the slight flutter of lashes. “I don’t want to have this conversation, Ricky.”

“You never will.”

“It's been a long day.”

“I deserve answers,” said Ricky, firm. “If you’re really going to send me away, you have to tell me why you’ve acted how you have with me. I don’t know how to read you like I do other people. Why do you treat me like you do? Is it because I remind you of the Temples?”

Tinsley didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t know how to tell Ricky that the dislike he had felt for him came from somewhere he didn’t know. It wasn’t new, or fresh. It had woken like a great slumbering beast, just as the first sight of Ricky on that island. “You haven’t been the kindest to me either.”

“You’re impossible to be kind to.”

“That’s not true,” said Tinsley, finally looking at him again with his icy, indestructible eyes. “You view me as some cold evil bastard and I’m not.”

“Well you’ve never acted like anything else.”

“Because I don’t owe you any other side of me,” said Tinsley with sudden ferocity. “What have you done that makes you think you’re completely innocent here? You’ve spent the last fortnight winding me up for nothing but your own entertainment. Do you know that I don’t know how to read you either? Have you ever thought of that? I have no idea who you are! You’re kind some days and horrible the next. You haven’t shown me a solid side of you. Just- Just false roles that you seem to enjoy playing in order to get under my skin. You drive me damn near mad, Ricky. You do it on purpose. For all I know you’re doing it right now!”

Ricky was a tad speechless under this barrage of words. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Tinsley speak for so long with such emotion. “I’m not. I’m not doing it now.”

Tinsley held his gaze for a long moment, as if waiting for him to crack a joke at his expense. “Good.” He turned his head away, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Good. Fine.”

Ricky smiled, a small one. “I like it when you talk like that.”

“Like what.”

“Like you want me to understand you.”

Tinsley pretended to be distracted by the candle on the table beside them. He drew off a glove, and Ricky watched him do so out of the corner of his eye, as if being caught staring at his bare skin would be entirely inappropriate. Tinsley lifted his hand to the candle and pinched out the flame. A small ribbon of smoke curled into the air, and melted away. He watched it as if it was the most interesting thing he had seen in his life. Ricky watched it too.

"How do you do that?"

Tinsley hadn't looked away from where the smoke had vanished. He stared at the space, like if he stared hard enough he could follow the smoke away into nothingness. "Do what?"

"Pinch out flames like that. I've seen you do it more than once."

"I don't know. I just can."

Ricky propped his pillow up behind him before sitting back against it. "Can I see your hand?"

Tinsley raised an eyebrow at him. But to Ricky's surprise he simply nodded, before extending his hand towards him, palm up. Ricky held it softly in one of his own, tracing the lines on his palm, tracing each long finger to its calloused tip.

"Your skin is rough," he concluded. "That's why you can pinch out flames."

Tinsley didn't say anything. He knew his skin was rough and cold and unwelcoming. And he knew Ricky's was soft, as soft and warm as fine sand in the late evening sun. Ricky brushed his thumbs across Tinsley's palm, as if his skin could be opened up like a book that would tell Ricky all his secrets, all there was to know about him, everything he feared and everything he desired. Perhaps it worked, because Tinsley heard himself speaking. He hadn't given himself permission to speak, yet he could hear his voice. He felt the reins he had on his mind slip slightly in his grip.

"I thought my life would be different after the Roost. Plain grey days in the north. I thought I'd bury everything I owned - my coat and rapier and pistol and musket, everything - and leave them to freeze solid. I thought I'd come back to them when I was old and grey, and they'd have frozen so solid that I could dig them up again and smash them into a thousand pieces. It would've felt good, I think."

Ricky waited for him to go on. "...I don't think it would've felt as good as you think it would have."

Tinsley looked at his smiling face. A soft smile. Not the typical sneer, or smirk. "I don't think I'll ever find out now."

It was strange, how his plans had changed so suddenly. Ever since he had left the Roost he had been traveling north and north and north, to where it was coldest. On some days he thought he wouldn't even make it that far. He thought about just lying on the nearest beach, letting himself fall asleep there, letting the sea take him while he slept. But then Ricky had happened, and it seemed like his life was kicking off again. He just wasn't sure where. And he wasn't sure why.

He supposed the sea _had_ taken him, in a way. In a very different way than he would've expected.

"You have little scars on your hands," said Ricky, observing each white nick in Tinsley's skin, turning his hand this way and that. "Why?"

"Growing up. Got scratched a few times during training. Most people have such scars."

"I like them."

Tinsley retracted his hand and pulled his glove back on. His skin still felt warm where Ricky had touched it. "They're not the worst scars a man can have." He abruptly stood up. "Come on. We're leaving within ten minutes."

To his surprise, Ricky did as he was told. He pulled on his boots and fetched his coat and gave his face a quick wash in the sink. Then he followed Tinsley downstairs and outside. The sky was clear and dusted with stars. They fetched their horses. Neither spoke a word to the other. The silence was soft and fragile. Tinsley led the way, and he could feel Ricky's eyes on him. Ricky's eyes were strange like that; they could touch a person with the same sensation of skin on skin. Tinsley didn't look back at him. He was afraid to.

After a few minutes of silence but for the sound of their horse's hooves against the grass below, Ricky spoke.

"You were angry with me earlier. More angry than I've ever seen you."

Tinsley nodded. "I was."

"Then why do you care if I get home safely?" Ricky wrapped the reins of his horse around his hands. "Would it not be easier for you just to let me run off and get myself killed?"

"Probably. But the Council would make an example of you, Ricky. They like making examples of their enemies. They do it in Arcania. They lock up any scholar who defies them. Who knows what they do to them in there. They've been doing it in the Temples for years, ridiculing your religion. They did it on the Roost, to show that rebellions can and will be crushed." Tinsley's words were bitter. "I let them make an example of me once. I won't give them someone else to make an example of either." 

Ricky eyed Tinsley's back, as if he had any chance of seeing through the coat's fabric and to the scars below. "Thank you."

"Don't think yourself special. I'd do the same for anyone."

Ricky grinned. "But you're doing it for me."

Tinsley looked at him, and there was that rare amusement in his eyes. Ricky raised his brows, studying Tinsley's mouth, what he could see of it in the dark.

"Oh? Is that the very beginnings of a smile I see?" He laughed. "The day I make you smile is the day I know I could conquer the world if I wanted to."

Tinsley turned his head away to face forwards again. For a moment it seemed as though he was about to talk back, as though he had a witty response at the tip of his tongue. Light-hearted banter, with Tinsley himself? Ricky could hardly believe it. But then Tinsley suddenly kicked his horse into a canter, taking off across the grass. Ricky swiftly did the same, standing in the stirrups, giving chase across the fields. The sea whipped past to their left, glistening with the moonlight from above. He urged his horse to go faster, faster, the wind whipping his hair back off his face. Tinsley seemed to pass in and out of the shadows ahead, the gilding on his coat occasionally flashing, as if to say, _I'm here, I'm here, catch me if you can._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank the instrumental 'Deletion' by Hans Zimmer for inspiring Ricky's first freakout at the beginning of this chapter 😌♥️


	17. Sea Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re neither far, so I can wait for you, Nor close, so I can meet you. You’re neither mine, so my heart can rest, Nor forbidden for me, so I can forget you.”_ \- Ahmad Shawqi

The Head Professors, after Banjo had managed to speak to them all, had agreed to meet on this very evening, after the day’s lessons were done and dusted. A soft sea mist had crept over the city, enshrouding its buildings and its streets. One could always see the mist coming before it arrived; it would swallow up the bottom of Greatlight, covering the stone bridge that connected it to Past and Future, making the tower seem as if it was emerging straight from the bowels of the earth. When the fog rolled through Past and Future itself, it was ordered that windows and doors to the outside should be kept shut until the fog had dissipated. No one questioned the High Councillor’s choice, for when a scholar happened to find themselves within the School’s sleek corridors and dark wood offices at such a time, they would hear creaking from the stone around them, and feel a strange pressure in their own head, as if the sea mist was squeezing in from all sides…

But this discomfort was not the only reason the Council despised when the mist arrived. There was another equally irritating reason, and it was the fact that the thick wispy mist provided adequate cover for the most illicit of activities. These foggy nights were the nights when scholars scurried through the cobblestone streets in their hooded cloaks and their softest, most silent pairs of shoes, joining the cats and the rats in the alleys. All the street lamps would be lit upon every black iron pole, upon every black iron wall sconce, but still it remained relatively easy to slip around unnoticed. These nights were Darla’s favourite nights, for Darla was not simply a scholar. No, she was involved in the very dangerous, very illegal activity of saving forbidden books before the Council could get their hands on them and toss them into the furnace that presumably lay somewhere within Past and Future. This was a lengthy process, and it involved locating the book in question, locating a person capable of transcribing this book, locating a binder (thankfully there was one on the outskirts of the old School of Dreams and Omens who routinely agreed to help), and then finding a way to smuggle the transcribed edition beyond the city walls. All in utmost secrecy.

It was a monthly routine. Darla wished it could be a weekly one. But most people who agreed to transcribe the books were reluctant, or made mistakes due to shaky nerves, or changed their minds halfway through and burned the pages they had finished. Fran had been, by far, the neatest and quickest scribe Darla had managed to find. And unfortunately, Fran’s father had made her promise not to transcribe such risky texts again. Even Darla herself had promised him she wouldn’t ask such a thing of Fran again. Breaking a promise was an action despicable in itself, but breaking a promise to a Person of the End? Darla was sure there would be a curse of eternal bad luck in there somewhere. But if Darla could somehow manage to convince both Fran and her father to become involved in the routine, she would have both a capable transcriber and a way to transport the transcribed books out of the city. But she knew it was just a wishful thought. The People of the End rarely strayed from Gravehearth, and Fran was too kind for Darla to take advantage of her without feeling entirely guilty. So Darla drifted off into the misty streets to find another transcriber.

Fran herself had decided to venture out into the streets, but for no illicit reason. She had simply had a craving for a cup of hot coffee from a coffeehouse she knew stayed open until midnight. She also knew that it was Council-owned. This was evident from the fact that, despite the coffee being a superb blend from within the very greenhouses of Flora and Fauna, cultivated and cared for in the heavy humidity it required, no one was ever inclined to sit in the shop while they drank. Scholars would purchase their coffee and leave straight away. Fran did exactly this. Only when she was in the streets again did she take a sip from her cup; it was delicious, a warming chocolatey flavour to it, with just a hint of spices - cinnamon, she thought, and perhaps a pinch of nutmeg - and it was neither too sweet nor too bitter. Fran looked at her coffee and thought, well, where shall we go tonight? Ah, the library. Perfect. But as she made her way to the closest one, she couldn’t help but allow her mind to wander. It was strange, she thought, how Arcania was built on science and logic, yet still relied so heavily on fables to push forward. No one spoke out loud of such fables, but they were there. They were in the air. The stories of the gods and the monarchs, the stories of humanity's greed and its inevitable downfall. Fran had heard many renditions of the same story, the story of the warrior and the lover. To some, the warrior from the sea was a villain, through and through. He came forth and slayed the gentle king and took his daughter to be his lover, therefore condemning her to a life of heartbreak when he left her and returned to the sea. Yet in other tellings, the warrior was the hero, and he rescued the princess from her cruel father. Why was it that the lover never changed? In some it is the warrior who is the villain, in some he is the hero. Even the lover's father gets his fair share of glory and hatred. But what about the lover? The princess? What was she like? Hero or villain? Did she love the warrior like he loved her? Did she curse him for killing her father in combat? She had no voice of her own in any of the renditions Fran had heard. 

Personally, Fran thought that the lover would've been angry at the world, a world that never left her alone. She would've been angry at the men who fought each other to the death to claim her as theirs, whether as a lover or a daughter. Fran was sure that the princess would've known that the warrior and the king were truly fighting for nothing but their own egos. As she walked through the streets, Fran noticed a solitary light halfway up a tower in Storms and Skies… Then she was brought back to rapt attention as a baker rushed past, pushing his rattling pastry cart ahead of him, leaving a heavenly smell of warm spices in the cold air.

* * *

Banjo opened the door. “Oh, terrific! Right on time.”

The baker rolled his cart into the room, trying to pretend as if he had strolled quite calmly from his bakery to the School, instead of having spent the first half of his journey hurrying through the streets in fear of being late, and the latter half sweating and shaking in the contraption that carried people from one floor to another in the towers of Storms and Skies. “Where shall I put them, Professor?”

“The table would be fine, my good man.”

So the wooden tray of pastries was set on the table. Banjo had ordered northern black pastries, and the sugar on them glittered like crystals. He had a pot of coffee brewed, and three bottles of wine set in the middle of the table. For he had to admit; although the annual meeting of Head Professors did take time to discuss important aspects of the upcoming year, they also took time to have a regular chit-chat and to make inquiries into how the other’s lives had been progressing recently, or what projects they were working on. Once everyone got talking, it generally turned out to be a pleasant evening.

The first to arrive were the Lones from Health and Wellbeing. Delia arrived soon after, still warm from the forge. Gabriel was the last to arrive, as he usually was (ever reluctant to leave his plants). 

The doors opened a fourth time. Banjo turned, expecting it to be a messenger, or a student requiring urgent academic advice. Instead, it was a person who had every right to be in this room at this time, but no right to present himself so casually and amiably to the group of people present.

“I’m on time, aren’t I?” he said, undoing his cloak from around his neck and handing it to thin air. One of the servers leapt forwards to take it from him, backing away with their head ducked. “I should hope so. I’ve never been late for anything in the forty-eight years of my life. I know they say that while you’re young, you should take advantage of the fact you can be late without consequence, but I personally have always found the act of being late quite deplorable. Is this my seat?” A long pale hand reached out and wrapped around one of the wooden bars of the chair, as poison ivy wraps around an innocent plant to drain the life from it. “If a student is late to my class, they are refused entry. I think it to be a suitable punishment for treating your education as second to some selfish bit of fun and games. Fun and games don’t get you through life, do they, gentlefolk?”

He didn’t get a reply. The other Head Professors were watching him with looks ranging from Gabriel’s pallid dejection to Banjo’s mild confusion to Delia’s barely-muted rage. Her white face was turning a bright shade of red. High Councillor Theonas gave them each a softly apathetic smile with his thin lips. It wasn't a common occurrence for him to attend the annual meeting of Head Professors, despite the fact that by all technicalities he was the Head Professor of Past and Future. He laced his spidery fingers together in front of him.

“Shall we proceed?”

“Professor McClintock usually leads these meetings,” said Delia, folding her arms on the table and hunching her shoulders.

“I’m sure he does,” said Theonas with an infuriatingly patient smile. A man in his mid-forties, with crow-black hair that had started to grey at the temples, he still somehow found a way to frequently patronize his older colleagues. His eyes landed on the tray in the centre of the table, and he smiled a bit more genuinely. “Oh, how lovely. Black pastries from the north.” He plucked one from the pile, pulling the soft dough apart and popping a small section in his mouth. “Mm. People who have never traveled north don’t know how good pastries can be.”

There was a skipped beat as the Head Professors absorbed the shocking hypocrisy of the Councillor, a man who could send a delegation north to crush a rebellion while simultaneously praising the work of these same rebels. If the miners hid in bakeries they should be safe enough, thought Banjo dryly.

“A toast, before we start,” said Theonas, raising the cup of wine that had been placed at his seat, “to the genius of the north.”

It was then Banjo realized that Theonas was doing it on purpose. His watchful eyes skimmed their faces, as if waiting for one of them to break, to make it known that they knew something they shouldn’t, so he could slap shackles on them, march them off to Greatlight, and replace them with someone more... approvable. Because Theonas played games like this. He was intelligent, charming, and observant; three traits that could be both praised and condemned, depending highly on the person who had mastered them. Theonas had mastered them quite efficiently, but was also the type of person where his possession of them was most definitely condemnable. None of the Head Professors knew exactly where he had climbed up from, but Delia had suggested some rubbish-filled pit at the back of one of the greasier inns in the city. Thankfully, before Delia could voice this suggestion, Grace Lone spoke up, raising her wine.

“To the genius of the north,” she said in her soft voice. “May it always triumph, against any odds.”

Banjo gave the table a hearty slap, raising his own cup. "Hear ye, hear ye."

Theonas smiled, but when they drank, he set his cup aside unsipped. Because although he was intelligent, charming, and observant, he was also a man who believed wholeheartedly in superstition and little ritualistic actions, such as raising a drink to toast a certain cause and wish it luck. He believed that, in some way or other, such an action could somehow manifest itself in a most inconvenient way in the future. Theonas loved the future. He lived for it. The past was nothing. No, it wasn't nothing. It was there to be molded and repainted into a suitable narrative for the future. That was all.

"Well then, what did you have on the itinerary for today, Professor McClintock?"

 _Nothing you were supposed to be a part of,_ thought Banjo to himself. "Very exciting things. Firstly, budgeting."

"Mm, yes, very exciting." He spread his hands. "But before that, I'd like to hear what each of you are working upon in your Schools. What projects you're involved in. What ones you have planned."

"Nothing that would be worth talking about," said Darcy, his face and voice flat. It was well-known that, since the Discovery, scholars could only work on the most mundane of projects to prevent another page of time from turning too swiftly.

"Come along, my friends," said Theonas with another of his patient smiles. "You know I encourage innovation."

It was true, in a way. The Council encouraged a certain type of innovation. They encouraged innovation that could be handed to them, boxed up and wrapped in decorative paper, and tied with a neat little bow. Therefore they could hold this innovation, perhaps rattle it around to see if they could guess what was in it, and then place it in a basement to ensure it never left said box. So because of this, the Head Professors remained silent.

Theonas rose to his feet, his fingertips remaining pressed to the table. He ducked his head quite humbly. "Very well. I'll go first." He straightened up. "I am commissioning a new library to be built. A library that will have all the books that will bring us forwards, not backwards. It is to be the largest one in the city-" He paused, a smile on his face. "-and the only one in the city."

The Head Professors blinked, equal looks of bewilderment on their faces. There were six libraries within the city, and that wasn't including the specialized libraries within the walls of each School. Florence spoke up first.

"I don't understand what you mean."

"The other six libraries within the city will have the appropriate books transferred to a vault within Past and Future. Then the buildings will be destroyed."

Delia slammed a fist on the table, making the cups leap and pirouette. "Madness! The libraries are centuries old!"

"That doesn't mean anything to us who believe in the future," replied Theonas coolly.

"But- But the-" Banjo didn't even know where to start. His stutters and splutters were only added onto by the other Professors in a rising chorus of panic. "But the books..."

"As I said, the appropriate books will be transferred to a vault, and then moved into the new library when it is built."

"Appropriate books?" Darcy's tone was icy. "That implies that there will be books left behind. Do I understand this correctly?"

"You do, Professor Lone."

"Tinderboxes!" Delia was red in the face with anger. "Tinderboxes of knowledge, you treat them like! All of it lost forever! You can't do such a thing and act as if you have any right to call yourself a Head Professor!"

"Arcania is more powerful, more influential, than it has ever been before," said Theonas as if talking to a perfectly understanding audience, "and under my reign it will continue to be so. We all remember the monarchs, don't we? We've all heard the stories. They fell for no other reason than their whimpering tendency to bow before the past. They were _afraid_. They were afraid of the _future_. They were afraid of _progress_. And because of that, the past swallowed them up and is now digesting them slowly out on that tiny island they've been reduced to. It was the great failure of the monarchs to bow before the fabled gods simply because that was how it had been for years. They never thought to stop and think about whether or not the gods were even real, even worth their while to pray for. But not us. We will build and we will develop and we will progress, and because of that the past will never catch us, and we will be the future, over and over again.” When he had finished he was a little out of breath, his eyes glittering. "Once the past has been destroyed in its entirety, we can start anew. The truth will be what we say it is."

"The truth will not be the truth then," said Gabriel, keeping his eyes lowered to the table. "Everything will be a lie."

"Everything will be the new truth," said Theonas, eyeing Gabriel with distaste.

"The world cannot survive on lies," said Grace Lone. "Just as a person cannot survive on gruel."

Banjo stayed quiet. He was rethinking Theonas' words, that the great failure of the monarchs was to bow before the gods. Because according to most tales, that hadn't been what had happened. According to most tales, the monarchs had _challenged_ the gods, and in the end had been thoroughly defeated. And more than that, it was not the past that was swallowing them up and digesting them; it was the so-called future that Theonas loved so dearly.

"I'm glad you have all been so understanding," said Theonas with a smile, "but there is one more thing; your private quarters - both offices and living - will be searched for any forbidden books you may have unwittingly held onto. The searches will start with the School of Health and Wellbeing and move east across the city, ending with Storms and Skies. Although I'm sure that none of you hold onto such things, but one can never be too sure."

The Head Professors all looked at him for a long moment then, each wondering exactly what would happen if they leapt to their feet and killed him on the spot. But there was no being sure that the next-in-command would be any better than Theonas. Most likely they would be worse. So instead, the meeting was adjourned, and the Professors rushed to their homes to begin clearing out the books and notebooks and loose pages they had held dear for the last thirty years.

Theonas remained in the room for quite a while. He helped himself to another pastry, pouring himself a cup of coffee and adding a healthy dollop of cream to it. He stirred it with the long, elegant spoon provided. The sights from the tower window were spectacular. Greatlight dominated the city, as it always did. Theonas smiled to himself. A person cannot survive on gruel, Grace Lone had said. He wondered if she knew how wrong she was.

* * *

They had spent some time chasing across the fields, startling the farm animals, causing sheep to flee in a panic and chickens to flutter their feathers and leap into the air. Ricky wasn’t sure why they were keeping their horses running for so long. He didn’t care. He just knew that he would chase Tinsley to the ends of the earth if he had to. Every few miles Tinsley would throw a look over his shoulder, those impenetrable eyes catching hold of Ricky’s for only a breath of a moment before turning away again, as if just making sure that Ricky was still there, still following. Ricky wished his horse was faster. Or perhaps it was him who was the problem. He wasn’t as elegant of a rider as Tinsley was. Tinsley remained both lax and steady in his saddle, bringing his horse over fence after fence without a hint of trouble, his coat flying out behind him, just as Ricky’s was doing. From a distance, in the chiaroscuro of the moonlit night, they appeared like ghosts of themselves, sailing across seas of grass.

All of a sudden, Tinsley pulled his horse around, heading down into a small dip through which a satin ribbon of silver freshwater ran. He slowed to an easy canter, and Ricky finally caught up with him, breathless and laughing. Tinsley spared a glance at Ricky’s smiling face. The moon had nothing on the brightness of that smile.

“I haven’t ridden like that since I was a child.” Ricky pushed his windswept hair back off his face. “I forgot how fun it was.”

Tinsley didn’t say anything. Then he said, “I’ve never ridden like that. Ever.”

“What? But you ride so well.”

Tinsley corrected himself. “I’ve never ridden like that for fun.”

He dismounted beside the stream, leaving his horse to water itself. He heard the rustle of clothing as Ricky dismounted too, a little clumsily. Ricky did everything with a carefree clumsiness. He spilled his wine when he drank. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He threw his head back when he laughed, to the point of almost overbalancing in his chair. Tinsley used to think he despised such sloppy, raucous behaviour, but Ricky did it all with such confidence it was almost charming. Tinsley stayed by his horse as Ricky wandered off into the nearby bushes to relieve himself. He whistled as he did so. Tinsley didn’t find this so charming.

When Ricky had finished, he moved to the stream and knelt down beside it. He washed his hands in the water, and then washed his face. He stripped his coat and shirt off and splashed water against his neck and shoulders. It was cooling against his skin, running in icy rivulets down his back and chest. He pretended not to notice Tinsley watching him from the usual distance. Slowly, very slowly, Ricky was beginning to understand how to communicate with Tinsley. He realized that Tinsley could converse in silences. He could speak with his eyes. He expressed his mood through the set of his shoulders, through how high he held his head at any given moment. Using too many words irritated Tinsley. He didn’t enjoy being spoken at. Ricky thought it a great pity that he was only beginning to understand Tinsley now. 

In the quiet, Tinsley sidled ever closer. He stopped beside Ricky, and he crouched down without a hint of a wobble, always so perfectly in control of himself. He filled his small waterskin, taking a long drink from it before topping it up again and pushing the cork back in with his thumb. Ricky didn’t have a waterskin, but he was fine with scooping the freshwater up with his hands and drinking out of them. He glanced up while doing so, his mouth and nose hidden by his cupped hands, and Tinsley was watching him. Ricky wiped a wet hand across his wet mouth, shaking the droplets aside. He didn’t take his eyes from Tinsley’s. After a moment, Tinsley extended his waterskin to him.

“It’s easier to drink from this.”

Ricky eyed it with mock-wariness, before reaching over and taking it. “Did you somehow manage to poison it in plain sight?”

“Drink,” said Tinsley flatly, “before I change my mind.”

Ricky grinned at him. Then he tilted his head back and tipped the water into his mouth. It tasted sweeter than before. After Ricky had drunk his fill he wiped the heel of his hand across his mouth and passed the waterskin back to Tinsley.

“Thank you.”

Tinsley nodded. He refilled the skin once more before straightening up and going back to his horse. Ricky sat back on the grass, lying down, linking his hands behind his head. The sky was clear of clouds, the stars endless, yet it was still a warm night.

“What’s the weather like on the Roost?” he asked. “Warm?”

“Warm.”

“Warmer than this?”

“Yes. Warmer than this.”

Ricky rested a hand on his bare chest, letting his fingers tap a jaunty rhythm along his sternum. “How do you not melt in those coats and jumpers? Wait, let me guess. Training. Discipline. Both at the same time.”

“We’re just used to it.”

“Maybe it’s the constant heat that makes you so temperamental.” Ricky turned his head so that he could see Tinsley. “You should try getting undressed. Might cool you down.”

Tinsley’s footsteps crunched across the dry dirt and soft grass. “If you come up with a new theme for your jokes, do let me know.”

“Aw, would you want to hear them?”

“Would I have a choice?” Tinsley sat down too, tucking the tail-ends of his coat underneath him. “I got the impression you don’t quite care whether or not I want to hear your voice.”

Ricky smiled. “Come on, Tinsley. We’re past impressions.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that we know each other. A little.”

"We don't."

Ricky let his head loll aside to look at where Tinsley sat next to him. "I know you don't like chamomile tea. I know you prefer sweet light wines to heavy ones. I know you're prone to nightmares. I know you only smoke when you're irritated with something..."

"Well then by all means I should have a cigarette in my hand right now."

"..and I know you like to think that you could survive by yourself," said Ricky quietly, "but I also know that you don't truly want to be alone."

Tinsley looked at him for a long while then. For a second it seemed he was about to speak. Then he just shook his head slowly before looking away. Ricky pushed himself up, moving closer to Tinsley, watching the side of his face he could see.

"It's better to admit when you're lonely," he said, resting a hand on Tinsley's leg. "The only thing that makes loneliness more lonely is when you try to tell yourself you're not lonely."

Tinsley looked at him again, surveying him in a new light. "Why can't you act like this more often."

"Act like what?"

"Like a- Like a normal person. Not speaking in riddles or saying things I can't understand."

"I don't think you've been trying to understand."

"I have been trying," said Tinsley quietly. "Sometimes I think of the things you say. I think of them at night."

"The things I say?"

"Yes. The things you say. Like when you said it seems inevitable that I'll rot away at the edge of the world." Tinsley shrugged. "Maybe you were right when you said that. A few years ago I had purpose. I knew what I was doing, and I knew that what I was doing was right. Now I don't have anything. I'm far away from home and I have nowhere else to go." He watched the stream sliding past in front of them, and found himself to be jealous of the fact that the water had a predestined path to take, and therefore had no fear that every step could lead to a mistake. "I told myself I didn't care. For a long time I told myself I didn't care. But when you said to me, in Snow's End, that people would forget my name, that they'd forget I'd ever existed... I realized I did care. I don't want to be forgotten. I'd rather be remembered as a failure who tried his hardest than be forgotten altogether."

Ricky watched the side of his face, his distinctive profile with its strong nose. He memorized every freckle, every minute detail. There were fine lines at the corners of Tinsley's eyes. He must have laughed a lot, once. "I never knew you were truly listening."

"You're very difficult to ignore," said Tinsley wryly, his lowered gaze still watching the passing stream.

"I think of what you say too." Ricky didn't look away when Tinsley turned his head to look at him, their eyes meeting. "When you told me that the secret to any great faith is terror... I thought about it that night, and I found it very hard to disprove. I still find it hard to disprove. But I don't want to spread my faith through terror."

"Well that's good to hear."

Ricky laughed quietly, running a hand down his face. Surprisingly, he heard a light exhale from Tinsley beside him, the closest thing to genuine laughter he had witnessed coming from him. After a few minutes, Ricky spoke again.

"You also told me I haven't shown a solid side of myself yet."

"You haven't."

Ricky waved a hand at himself. "This is one."

Tinsley processed this, his eyes still studying Ricky's face, as if searching for the beginnings of a smirk. "Okay."

"Well? Do you like it?" He grinned, playfully, leaning over and giving him a nudge in the side. "Or would you prefer I remain as I was?"

"No." Tinsley's eyes wandered over his face, curious, as if only seeing him properly now. "No, I like it."

Ricky watched Tinsley as Tinsley watched him. In that moment, they were each a warped mirror of the other; the differences immense, but just enough similarity for each to recognize a small part of themselves in the other's eyes. Ricky was certain this wasn't the first life they had met in, and for once Tinsley was thinking the same. Resting his fingertips lightly on the side of Ricky’s face, Tinsley guided him in, and Ricky let himself be guided, crawling closer, his neck outstretched and lips parted. Tinsley's eyes wandered over his face as if just interested in a closer look, taking his time, until Ricky took matters into his own hands. He moved quickly to kiss Tinsley on his mouth, feeling the tension in his chest unravel as Tinsley let out a low breath and allowed himself to be kissed. Tinsley lay back on the grass, his hands resting either side of his head, and he let Ricky kiss him harder, their lips meeting again and again, their noses pressing into each other's cheeks. Ricky’s breaths were heavy, trembling with anticipation. He slid an eager hand up the inside of Tinsley’s thigh, pulling it towards him so that he could fit a leg between Tinsley’s, laying their bodies flush together. Still, Tinsley didn’t touch him back. His hands remained lax against the grass, and he only reacted to Ricky’s kisses, taking no action of his own. Frequently he let out a low sound from the back of his throat; not quite a sigh, not quite a moan, but a quiet rumbling mix of the two. Ricky couldn’t kiss him enough. He took hold of Tinsley’s face, fingers tangling in his hair, and he kissed him with his head tilted one way, then the other way, eliciting soft pleasured sounds from Tinsley each time their lips met. Ricky lined his jaw with kisses, and he drew down the high neck of Tinsley’s underjumper and kissed the bared skin of his throat, and this was when he was stopped. He felt Tinsley’s hand against his chest, pushing him away. Ricky sat back a little, and when Tinsley looked him in the eye he forgot how to breathe.

"That's enough," said Tinsley quietly, the back of his fingers still against Ricky's chest.

Ricky blinked. “What?”

“That’s enough.”

Ricky let himself be pushed aside, and he rolled onto his back so that he could see nothing but the sky. For a moment he just lay there, breathless and confused. He pulled irritably at the front of his trousers; he had gotten hard, just like that. Just from kissing Tinsley for all of five seconds. And yet somehow, Tinsley seemed to be feeling nothing of the sort. He was, as ever, completely in control of himself. Ricky wanted to reach over and check if he'd had the same effect on Tinsley that Tinsley had had on him, but he didn't see that being received too well. He rested a forearm across his eyes, letting out a long sigh, and said: "Why not."

A pause. "Why not what?"

"Why not," repeated Ricky more forcefully. He knew that Tinsley knew exactly what he was asking; _Why not more?_

Another pause. "...Because I don't think we're good for each other."

"If you really think that, then stop getting my hopes up."

Tinsley scoffed. "What? Your hopes that you'll get to bed me for a night? I'm so sorry to have crushed your wildest dreams, Ricky. My sincerest apologies."

"Gods, shut up."

Ricky sat upright, his face hot. Between his legs he was positively throbbing, his heart was beating heavy in his chest. He needed to leave, to cool off somewhere.

"You're being cruel," he muttered, pushing himself to one knee. "If you're not interested, then don't act as if you are."

"I kissed you because you kissed me. Don't kiss me and I won't kiss you."

"You say that as if you didn't _want_ me to kiss you."

"I never said I wanted you to."

"You don't have to use words to let someone know you want something. It was in your eyes."

Tinsley propped himself on an elbow, arching an amused eyebrow. "It was in my eyes?"

Ricky gave him a withering look. "Eyes can speak. _You_ speak more with your eyes than with your mouth." He picked some grass from the ground, distractedly rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. "People often overlook how important eyes are. Eyes are the windows to the soul." He grinned. "Which is why yours are cold and empty."

"And why yours are black as night," replied Tinsley wryly.

Ricky gave him a long look. "You have to be careful with eyes like yours. They mean you can't lie."

Tinsley watched him stand up. "You don't know that."

"I do."

"You don't."

"Don't worry. It's a good thing." Ricky smiled. "Honest eyes are the most beautiful."

Tinsley pushed himself to his feet, dusting his hands off as he looked down at Ricky's face. "You're just making things up as you talk."

"They are," shrugged Ricky, as if it just couldn't be helped. He spoke as he pulled his shirt on. "Especially in bed. To look down and see eyes that let you in entirely, that let you know everything they're feeling... That's beauty at its purest."

Tinsley raised a dubious eyebrow. "And you think I have such eyes?"

"Well, I can't be entirely certain yet, can I?" He slipped a playful arm around Tinsley's waist, drawing him forwards. "Although I would _love_ to find out."

Tinsley's face flushed a bright red, and he pushed Ricky's arm away, sharply. "Don't do that."

"I'm joking. Don't worry."

"I don't care. Don't- Don't touch me like that."

Ricky watched, baffled, as Tinsley strode back to his horse and hauled himself into the saddle. "What's wrong now?"

"Just hurry up," muttered Tinsley, his head tilted away. His heart was hammering against his ribs; the way Ricky had just touched him had sparked something dangerous inside him. "We're moving on."

"It was just a _joke_. Honestly, what is with you? You think it's fine to kiss me whenever you feel like it but I can't even lay a hand on you in return?"

"I don't want to start this with you. I don't. You're- You're a bad influence on me."

Ricky almost laughed out loud, but he was too shocked to do so. _"I'm_ a bad influence?"

"I was fine, Ricky. I was fine before you showed up. And now I-"

"You were not fine. You were fucking miserable." Ricky shrugged his coat back on before climbing onto his own horse. "At least now you have a bit of life to you. If anything, I was a _great_ influence."

Tinsley glared at him. "You're going home. The second we get to the beach, you're going home."

"I could've made you a very happy man for the past few weeks, you know," said Ricky lightly. "A very happy man indeed."

"For a night, perhaps," muttered Tinsley.

"A night you'd never forget. Or recover from, for that matter."

Tinsley tutted at him, before flicking the reins of his horse and heading back up the hill. Ricky followed at a brisk trot, grinning widely.

* * *

The sea was black and eternal. Ricky watched it for a long while. He stood on a dune, the reeds brushing against his coat. Tinsley was building a fire further down the beach, striking sparks from flint and steel. They had been unable to find Anita’s red boat in the dark, and Tinsley had reluctantly admitted that sailing by night in a small rowboat was dangerous. Ricky wasn’t even sure how he was expected to row all the way back to Storm’s Eye, but then again, he wasn’t intending to. He would row the boat far enough from the shore that Tinsley couldn’t see him, and then he would head south. He had no need for Tinsley. Except for right now, as Ricky had never been the best at lighting fires. He watched as Tinsley struck sparks again, and this time they caught the dry wood of the fire he’d built up. There was no celebration, however. No smile and thumbs-up. Tinsley just got to his feet, crossed to his horse, and put the flint and steel back into his saddlebag. Ricky looked back at the sea.

Tinsley had hardly spoken a word to him for the past hour. It was as if they had reverted right back to when they had first met, and this both angered Ricky and saddened him. Perhaps he and Tinsley simply weren’t meant to happen. Perhaps this would be his last night with Tinsley, full of nothing but cold silence and colder distance. It wasn’t right. If Tinsley really was the lover, then why did he hate Ricky? Why did they not get along? Why did they argue and fight more than they talked? There was an anger in Tinsley, a bitter and deep-seated one. The anger of a jilted lover, perhaps? Ricky looked at Tinsley where he stood, half of him in flame and half in shadow, his head angled towards the fire. Ricky decided that there was nothing left to lose. If in some past life he had hurt Tinsley, hurt him enough that the anger passed with him from life to life, then maybe the first step towards reconciliation was an apology. The idea of apologizing to Tinsley left a sour taste in his mouth, but if it was necessary, he would have to do it. He descended the dune.

But as he crossed the sand, boots crunching shells below him, Tinsley turned his head to look at him, and Ricky stopped in his tracks. He had never seen a warning put so clearly than the one he saw in Tinsley’s eyes. So Ricky casually circled him at a safe distance, stopping by his horse to get some food, as if that was what he had intended on doing anyway. The loaf of bread he had taken from Mayeda’s kitchen was still fresh. The crust crackled when he squeezed it. He carried the satchel of food to the fire, this time avoiding Tinsley’s eyes so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge the warning in them, before sitting down on the sand. He took out the bread and the small bottle of wine. Then he looked up at Tinsley, who was still staring at him.

“You should eat,” said Ricky, lying back and propping himself on an elbow.

“I’m not hungry,” came the cool response.

“I haven’t seen you eat since morning."

“I haven’t been hungry since morning.”

Ricky watched him closely. “You’re punishing yourself for what happened to your home.”

Tinsley didn’t respond for a few long seconds. Then he turned his head to look at Ricky, who was looking back with a calm certainty. Some wood in the fire popped, spitting sparks into the air. Tinsley didn’t notice.

“No I’m not,” he said, reluctantly sitting down.

“You are.” Ricky sat upright; some sand stuck to the back of his coat. “You don’t let yourself have anything nice at all. The only alcohol I’ve seen you drink freely is that poison in the north, and you eat only the plainest food. It’s some sort of penance.” He broke off a half of the bread in his hand, the crust making a satisfying crackling sound. He held it midway between himself and Tinsley. “Eat.”

Tinsley continued staring at him, and inwardly he was quite surprised that Ricky had been watching him closely enough to notice such things. He let his gaze drop to the bread. He swallowed. “I’m not hungry.”

“Just eat the damn bread, Tinsley. I don’t know who you’re trying to impress here.” He rummaged about in the bag. “And have some- some cheese. Or something.”

Tinsley’s stomach rumbled, quietly. He still didn’t take the bread. “I don’t want to.”

“You’re going to waste away to nothing. Eat.”

"I won't waste away. I eat as much as I need to."

"Food isn't here so you can eat as much as you _need_ to," said Ricky exasperatedly, throwing his eyes to the sky. "Food is here to enjoy! Food is here to _be_ enjoyed. It's one of the simplest joys in the world. And believe you me, the food here is much better than the food where I come from. You're lucky, you know. All the sweet fruits, all the spices and the herbs, they're here for you to eat as much as you _want_ , not as you _need_. So eat."

“I don’t-”

“Consider my company a replacement penance,” said Ricky dryly, pushing the bread towards him, "and eat.”

Tinsley shook his head with a grumbled sigh. He took the bread. “Since you’re obviously not going to shut up.”

Ricky smiled. “Never.”

They sat in silence for a while then. Tinsley poked at the fire with a stick, moodily chewing bread and cheese, pretending that the cheese wasn't more delicious than he remembered it to be. Ricky had lain back on the sand, hands behind his head, watching the stars. He suddenly gasped, making Tinsley’s head whip around, eyes alert.

“What? What is it?”

“I saw a shooting star!” Ricky's dark eyes were bright and glittering, as if reflecting the hundreds of stars in the sky above. “Did you know that the stars are really drops of the sky’s blood from when it battled the sea? And a shooting star is a falling droplet.”

Tinsley seemed amused at this. He also looked up. “We were told that they were griffin eggs, and a shooting star was one falling to earth.” His voice grew odd; it was wistful, a tone Ricky never thought he’d hear in Tinsley’s voice. “At the end of every summer there’s a shower of them in the sky. You can see them from the Roost. We’d have a festival and celebrate the falling eggs. And there’d be food and drink and dance and fireworks from Arcania. It was the one festival we had. Only one, every year.”

“Only one?” Ricky whistled through his teeth. “That’s sad.”

“It was enough.” Tinsley went back to poking the fire, sending waves of sparks into the air, over and over. “We don’t have it anymore.”

“Oh. Why not?”

“It was banned,” he said, bitter. “It encouraged wrongful thinking, apparently.”

“And who decided that?”

“Who do you think?” He had stopped poking the fire, the stick held loosely in his hand. He was just glaring at the flames now, an arm around his legs and head resting on his knees. “That was when it all started, really. That was the first warning sign. But the Council is smart. I’d noticed them doing it everywhere else; just a little condemnation here and there, and before you know it you’re under their rule. Abiding by their laws and words.”

Ricky was listening now. His head was turned aside to watch Tinsley’s face. The firelight cast sharp shadows across his sharp features. He wanted to ask more about the Council, about what had happened on the Roost, but he didn't want their last night together to be mired in the past. Especially not Tinsley's past. Ricky decided to try and pry some pleasant memories from Tinsley instead.

“And _you_ danced? You?”

Tinsley picked up a handful of sand, letting it filter through his fingers as slowly as he could manage. “Yes. Everyone.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you even smile. How am I supposed to believe you danced?”

Tinsley picked up another handful of sand to sift it through his fingers again. “Well what do you consider to be dancing on Storm’s Eye?”

“Being happy. Moving freely. With music. And drums. And drink. A lot of drink.”

“We have some of those things in common, then. The music. The drink. No drums, though.”

Ricky arched an eyebrow. “Come on already. Show me what you think dancing is. I’m very interested in finding out.”

Tinsley looked at him, abandoning his handful of sand. Then he got to his feet and dusted himself off. He offered his hand to Ricky, palm-up. Ricky eyed it warily.

“What?”

“On the Roost, you dance in pairs.”

“In pairs?” Ricky still didn’t take the hand. He was suspicious. “How is that supposed to work?”

Tinsley inclined his head, a touch impatient. “Stand up and I’ll show you.”

He gave his hand a shake as if to remind Ricky it was still there. Ricky gave him a long, searching look before placing his hand in Tinsley’s and letting himself be pulled to his feet. Tinsley moved so that they were facing each other directly. He took Ricky by the shoulders, adjusting him as he saw fit. They were close enough that Ricky had to tilt his head right back in order to see Tinsley’s face fully. He lowered his gaze when Tinsley took hold of his left wrist, bringing his hand up to rest on his shoulder.

“You keep your hand here.”

Ricky still seemed a tad doubtful, as if this could yet show itself to be a trick. “Okay.”

“And my hand stays here,” said Tinsley, resting his hand on Ricky’s lower back, guiding him a bit closer.

For the first time in his life, Ricky blushed. The subtle sensuality of the touch against his back caught him off-guard entirely. Warmth flooded his face. He felt it spread down the back of his neck and between his shoulders. He quickly ducked his head; he wouldn’t be able to withstand it if Tinsley noticed and began poking fun at him. Thankfully, Tinsley didn’t notice, or if he did he made no comment. He just took hold of Ricky’s free hand, bringing both of their hands out to the side. Ricky eyed them, how they wrapped so softly around each other. His looked awfully small in Tinsley’s. It felt small too. And strangely weak. Ricky felt the warmth rise to his face again, but he determinedly quashed it. 

“And what now? Or is this what dancing is to you?”

Tinsley ignored the quip. “Now, I lead. You follow.”

“I don’t think-”

“And stand straight. _Straight.”_ He wrapped a hand around the back of Ricky’s neck, pulling upwards, forcing Ricky’s back to straighten. “Like that. You slouch too much. It irritates me.”

“I don’t slouch. You just walk around as if you have a stick up your ass.”

“It’s important to remain upright during this,” said Tinsley, a disapproving eyebrow arched. “It’s meant to be graceful. Smooth. Elegant. Everything you’re not.”

Ricky stuck his tongue out at him. Tinsley sighed sharply, throwing his eyes to the sky before saying: “Just follow my lead.”

Ricky didn’t have much of a choice. He was carried along by Tinsley, who moved so smoothly that all Ricky had to do was hold on and allow himself to go where Tinsley directed. It was surprisingly pleasant. The steps were measured and relaxed as Tinsley brought them in a circle around the small fire, the sand shifting underfoot. Yet even with such proximity Tinsley maintained a space between them. When Ricky tried to cross this space, Tinsley simply held him away, hands firm on his body. Their gazes found each other and didn't let go. Ricky wanted to kiss him again, wanted to kiss him more than anything in the world. He was sure it showed on his face. Tinsley brought the dance to a slow halt. The world around them stopped spinning, leaving them in a sudden lurching stillness. Ricky realized his heart was racing in his chest, his hands unwilling to let go of Tinsley. Not while he had him so close. But Tinsley slipped away, taking a step backwards. One hand still held Ricky’s, his other hand tucked behind his own back. The perfect gentleman. His eyes remained on Ricky’s for a long, still moment. He had never seen Ricky look so openly vulnerable before, so wanting, his cheeks flushed red and his eyes large. Tinsley lowered his gaze, swallowing hard. Then he bowed forwards, and pressed a soft kiss to the back of Ricky’s hand. He brushed a thumb over the space, as if sealing the kiss in place. He didn’t straighten up for a few long seconds. The air seemed heavier than before, holding him down. Then he moved back up to his full height again, releasing Ricky’s warm hand.

“And that’s how it ends.”

Ricky held his hand to his chest. He could still feel Tinsley’s lips against it, the rough bristles of stubble scraping, the point of his nose pressing into his skin. It all left a hot shadow in its place. Tinsley had already moved away, back to the other side of the fire, sitting back down in the sand to continue letting sand filter through his fingers over and over again. Ricky ran his hands through his hair, walking in a quick circle, his pulse jumping. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he was going insane with how much he wanted Tinsley, and that Tinsley didn't seem to feel the same. Or if Tinsley did feel the same, he sure was good at hiding it. Ricky, on the other hand, felt as if he was about to scream. He pulled off his coat, pulled off his shirt, hurrying towards the sea. He pulled off his boots, his socks, his trousers, hopping on one leg to get them off, all in a fluster. Tinsley looked away, pretending there was something more interesting out in the dark. He only looked back when he heard the soft splashing of Ricky walking into the shallows. He could just about see the outline of Ricky's body against the ocean, a dark silhouette against the blue gleam of waves. He heard Ricky's movements get slower the further he went into the water. Tinsley lowered his gaze. He looked at Ricky's clothes in the sand, scattered, tossed aside without a thought. He looked back at the sea. Ricky wasn't visible anymore, but he could hear him, he could hear the smooth sound of limbs through water. It was oddly tempting. Tinsley looked up at the moon, at the clouds that frequently drifted over it. He wondered if it was still the north moon, or if they had traveled far enough south that the moons had moved overhead. It was hard to tell. Things changed so swiftly when one was traveling.

He got to his feet, walking away from the firelight, as far into the darkness as he could. He pulled off his gloves, his goggles, and set them down. He took a few slow breaths before undoing his collar, his cuffs. He undid the belt on his coat before undoing the buttons and shrugging it off altogether. He folded it on the sand beside his gloves and goggles. He pulled his jumper off over his head, placing it on top of his coat, before unbuckling his boots, his belt. He stripped off his trousers, and then his underwear. The air was warm. He felt a sudden surge of giddiness. He'd never been naked in a public place before. It felt all sorts of wrong, but in the best way. If those at home could see him now, he'd be exiled all over again. He stayed in the dark as he moved towards the water. The shallows were cool against his skin, but pleasant. He waded in, up to his waist. The sand underfoot was soft and smooth. He let his fingertips brush across the surface of the water as if it were a fine silk.

“Tinsley?” A pause of disbelief. “Is that you?”

Tinsley didn’t respond. He waded in until the cool water was lapping against his ribs, caressing him with silken hands. When Ricky spoke again, it was with irritation.

“I came in here to get away from you.”

Tinsley still didn’t respond. He cupped his hands together and let seawater leak into them before splashing his face with its sharp freshness. He ran his damp fingers back through his hair, pushing it back off his face. It had been a long time since he had gone into the sea. He must have been a child the last time, at most a teenager. Back then it was just the sea. Now it carried something else in its currents.

He would never be able to look at the ocean again and not think of Ricky. He would always be able to hear Ricky’s mischievous whispers in the brush of waves against sand. He would always think of Ricky when he smelt the salt of the sea; it was the same scent that Ricky carried with him everywhere he went. Yes, the sea had been ruined in Tinsley’s mind. It had been tainted, poisoned. Yet here he stood, waist-deep in it, with the taste of it fresh on his lips.

The clouds overhead parted, revealing the moon again in all its deceitful brightness. Tinsley swiftly submerged himself under the water, all the way up to his nose. He kept his warning eyes on Ricky, who stood hardly a metre away. The markings on his skin were the same hue of deep blue as the water that stretched out far behind him, making it seem as if he was emerging from a blue mist, being formed from it, that the tendrils would vanish and reveal him as a flawless statue of himself. Tinsley put a bit more distance between them, but it didn’t matter anymore. There could never be enough distance between them now. Wherever Tinsley went in the world, he would feel Ricky’s presence, he’d feel it pulling at him, hooked into his skin.

Ricky swallowed hard before speaking. “Why won’t you let me see you.” He waited for an answer, his frustration mounting. “Is this entertaining to you? Do you find it amusing to do this?”

Tinsley shook his head. “No.”

“Then why are you doing it?” Ricky forced himself to lower his voice, closing his eyes. Then he laughed, icy and bitter. “You’re worse than me. You’re worse than anyone you've ever had the nerve to call a whore. At least they make their intentions clear. At least I let you know what I want. But you and your sick little game-”

“It’s not a game.”

“Then what is it?” Ricky’s voice rose again, tight with anger. “What are you doing to me?”

“I’m not doing anything. You think you’re entitled to me just because you want me.”

“You want me too,” said Ricky quietly. “Don’t try to deny it. I know it and so do you.”

“Don’t speak for me.” Tinsley watched the next batch of clouds drifting towards the moon. They couldn’t move fast enough. “You don’t know anything about me. Except for what gossipers have told you. And I guarantee you they know nothing. Nothing really.”

Ricky drifted closer, lowering himself in the water so that he and Tinsley were eye level with each other. “I have felt _everything_ you’ve ever felt. Do you want me to remind you? Do you want me to call back all those feelings you’ve tried to hide away? I can do it, you know. I know all of them by name.”

“Don’t start talking like this,” said Tinsley warily. “I hate when you talk like this.”

“When was it you realized you had no one left to save you?” Ricky inclined his head, cruel and taunting. “Was it when you stood at your trial? When no one tried to defend you? When people who were once your neighbours jeered you whenever you spoke? Or was it before the trial, that walk through the streets.” Ricky watched him closely. “That must have been difficult. So difficult. And your people turned on you, didn’t they? A stone struck your head and drew blood. Do you remember that?”

Tinsley’s eyes were unblinking, his face entirely still. He remained silent.

“Or was it when you spent night after night with no one in your cell but you,” continued Ricky, his voice soft. “No one to talk to. No one to listen to you. You told yourself you would die before you were even dead.” Ricky let these words sink in, the very memory he had drawn from Tinsley’s blood so long ago. “Do you remember that, Silverbird?”

The clouds passed over the moon, and the world was drenched in black again. Ricky waited for Tinsley to attack. He waited for the inevitable snap of his patience. He waited for _something,_ for anything. Instead, Tinsley’s voice was low and calm.

“Do you really want to see me?”

Ricky eyed him, unsettled by the tone of his voice. “I can’t now. It’s too dark.”

“You don’t need your eyes to see what I want to show you.” The water rippled and swelled as Tinsley straightened up out of it. Droplets ran from his skin, trickled into the sea. Ricky could hear them. “Come here.”

Slowly, Ricky advanced. He was tense, still ready for a surprise attack, a slap or a punch, or both. He watched as Tinsley’s tall silhouette turned around so that his back was facing Ricky. His back. Ricky was hesitant to believe it. But he came closer, and Tinsley allowed him.

Ricky reached out slowly, hesitantly, as if the touch of Tinsley’s skin off his could burn. It didn’t. His fingertips touched Tinsley’s back, and he felt the muscle there shift and harden in response. Ricky swallowed hard. Then he let his fingers trail down from Tinsley’s shoulder to his lower back. His throat grew tighter and tighter, until he couldn’t draw breath. Tinsley’s skin was gnarled and crossed with raised welts that would never go away. The wounds overlapped and connected each other, a macabre map of pain. Between his shoulders was the worst. The lashing had left a ragged dip across his spine, and more echoed it. Ricky could fit the entirety of his fingertip into some of them. The raised welts were more numerous than the torn skin. They reached over Tinsley’s shoulders, across the back of his neck. Some had even managed to mark the backs of his upper arms. It brought tears to Ricky’s eyes. Nothing could truly have prepared him to witness Tinsley’s scars in reality, his own cruel markings. Ricky pressed a hand to the blue markings on his own chest, and tried to imagine what it would have felt like to have been held down and cut against his will. To have the person doing it not care about his pain. How the markings would weigh him down instead of making him feel strong, remind him every day of this breach of his dignity. No wonder Tinsley clung to the idea of his honour hard enough to leave claw marks in it. But Ricky couldn’t possibly understand what scars had been left in Tinsley's head. It was beyond the realms of his imagination.

He didn’t want to say he was sorry. The words were flimsy, thin, transparent. So instead he moved forwards, his hands resting on Tinsley’s waist, and he kissed the space between his shoulders blades. He could feel the rise and fall of the scars against his lips. Slowly, as if in shock, Tinsley turned around. Ricky didn't move away; he remained close, his fingertips touching Tinsley's skin. He felt Tinsley's hand against the side of his neck, but its intentions were unclear; it simply rested there, warm and heavy. 

Ricky wrapped his arms around Tinsley's neck, pulling himself up and kissing him on the mouth. He pressed his body to Tinsley's, flush together, fitted together, letting out a small whimper at the sensation of Tinsley's skin against his. His arms hooked tighter around Tinsley's neck, his elbows resting over Tinsley's shoulders as he kissed him and kissed him. He couldn't get close enough. He wanted to smother him, envelop him, draw him into himself. But he felt Tinsley's hands on his ribs, pushing him down. Ricky let his arms slip from Tinsley's neck, letting himself slide back into the water, and he kissed Tinsley's chest instead, running his lips across it, hands gripping his waist.

"Ricky…"

Ricky ignored the murmur, walking Tinsley back towards the shallows. He would make love to him there, in the dark, in the water. He pushed up and kissed Tinsley again, hands cupping his face, drawing him in, both of them letting out quiet, echoing moans. Tinsley caught hold of his wrists, holding them away, holding Ricky away. His head was ducked, his breathing heavy.

"I can't… I just..." He shook his head, a subtle movement. "I can't."

Ricky swallowed hard. "Why not."

"Don't make this hard. Don't."

"Just once," breathed Ricky, his eyes large and imploring, searching for Tinsley's in the dark. "Just tonight. Before I go. That's all I want. I've never begged for anything in my life, but I'd beg for you if you asked me to. I'd beg for you, Tinsley."

Tinsley held onto Ricky's warm wrists, feeling them twist in his grip. "I can't risk it. I can't… If anyone found out-"

"It can be our secret," whispered Ricky, brushing up against him again. "Just for us. I won't tell anyone. Ever."

Tinsley wanted to refuse him, but he hesitated, and Ricky bit into this hesitation eagerly. He pressed his lips to Tinsley's again, harder than before, pushing his tongue into his mouth, fingers clawing his shoulders. He hooked a leg around his hip, pressing their bodies together, encouraging Tinsley to touch him back. Ricky kissed in a way Tinsley had never been kissed before; he kissed with his whole body, his hands running freely over Tinsley's skin, his mouth kissing every inch of skin it could reach. Tinsley weakened. Bit by bit, he weakened more. His hands slid around from Ricky's waist to his back, pushing upwards to his shoulders, feeling the warm solidity of his body. By the time Ricky kissed his neck he was all but defeated. 

"Ricky." He breathed the name, his head tilted back to bare his throat, Ricky's lips hardly leaving it for a second. "Ricky, I- _"_ He tangled his fingers in Ricky's hair, holding him against his neck. "I can't- I _can't-"_

Ricky let out a surprised sound as Tinsley pushed him away, the water frothing at the sudden movement. He stood in silence for a moment, watching Tinsley holding his own neck with both hands, as if Ricky had slashed it open instead of kissing it.

"Don't," mumbled Tinsley, his head ducked. "Don't do this."

Ricky wasn't sure who he was talking to. It sounded as if he was talking to no one but himself. Tinsley shook his head, his face still hidden.

"I can't... Not with you," he whispered. "It doesn't feel right."

Ricky was caught off-guard at this. "What do you mean?"

"I mean- I mean it doesn't feel right when you kiss me. Or when I kiss you. There's something- There's something that tells me not to."

"What something."

"Something in my head."

Ricky swallowed. "A voice?"

"I don't know. I don't- I don't know anything right now. I don't know what I'm doing." Tinsley was backing away, shaking his head. "I'm sorry."

Ricky remained in the water as Tinsley slipped away, back into the shadows. He didn't return for a long while.

Ricky walked until he was shoulder-deep in the black water, its white frothy ringlets clinging to him, and then he dove under. The sea roared in his ears, his body was already growing numb. He stayed under for as long as he could manage, which was an impressively long while, a lifetime spent building up tolerance to the cold and learning how timing was everything when it came to holding the breath in your lungs. It was all so calm, so untouched down here. The seaweed made lazy brushes at him, a few fish stopped to observe him before carrying on their way, tails flapping busily from side-to-side. He followed, pushing his fingers into the seabed, into the sand that drifted like dust, instead of clumping wetly like back on land. Everything was better than back on land. He would live down here in the deep forever if he could. But he had to go back. He wasn't done yet.

Back on the beach, he dried himself using his shirt. Then he pulled the rest of his clothing on, leaving his shirt to dry by the fire. Tinsley still hadn't returned. Ricky almost wished he wouldn't return; he was sick of seeing him and knowing that he wasn't allowed to have him. He was sick of letting himself fall for Tinsley over and over again, in those brief moments when Tinsley touched him and let Ricky touch him back. Ricky glared into the fire, his arms around his legs, his mouth pressed to his knee. He had seen many confusing things since arriving on the mainland, but Tinsley was the most confusing of them all. At least Ricky had managed to figure the rest of his confusions out. But not Tinsley. He remained as obscure as ever.

After another while Tinsley came back. He didn't say anything. He wore his trousers and jumper and boots, his coat and gloves in his hand, his hair still damp from the sea. He sat down and lit a cigarette, using a small stick from the fire. Then he smoked in silence. Ricky lay back, arms out either side, and let out a tired sigh.

“I wish I could just stay here. Never leave this beach.”

Tinsley's response was grumbled. “Well you can’t. You have to go home.”

Ricky rolled onto his side, his head propped up by his head. “Why do you want me to go so soon? You’re not scared, are you?”

“Of you? No.”

“Even after yesterday? What I did?” Ricky smiled, letting his head slide down his forearm to rest in the crook of his elbow. “Or did you like it?”

Tinsley’s face grew serious. “Can you control it?”

“Hm? What do you mean?”

“Let’s say you did do something the other day… Did you have control over what you did?”

Ricky pondered this. “I don’t know, actually. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Can you remember what you said?”

“I didn’t know I spoke.” He sat up, looping his arms around his knees. “It’s as I said. I can only remember how I felt.”

Tinsley was still studying him, bringing the cigarette to and from his mouth. “You said you were a god.”

Ricky didn’t respond for a moment. Then the corners of his mouth turned downwards, and he nodded once, as if to say, ‘maybe I am’. Tinsley arched a disapproving eyebrow at the flippancy.

“You also said you were a vessel for the- the 'gods'. And that you were their ‘truth’.”

Ricky shrugged. “Well I don’t remember saying any of that.”

“It’s not something to shrug off,” said Tinsley sternly. “If you can’t remember what you did, or what you said, if it controls _you,_ then-”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t provoke me,” said Ricky, sharp. “Because if I remember correctly, that’s exactly what you did.”

“I didn’t provoke you. You did the one thing that you knew not to do. You yammered on about the gods to a bunch of people you didn't know. A bunch of strangers you didn’t know were trustworthy or not. Word obviously found its way to the Councillor. You put that entire village in danger. It’s still in danger. The Council are going to notice that one of their own is missing.” Tinsley paused for breath. “So I didn’t provoke you. I was punishing you for what you did.”

“And you think you have the authority to dole out punishment to people around you?” Ricky got to his feet, pulling his shirt on over his head. “I’m not one of your soldiers on the Roost. And let me tell you this; next time you try to lay a hand on me-”

“Don’t you threaten me, little man." Tinsley was on his feet too, his face hard. "You seem to have forgotten that if I hadn’t been there to take care of those Librarians you'd be hanging from some tree somewhere and left there to rot as a warning.”

Ricky took a step forward. “I won’t let what happened to you happen to me.”

“You won’t have the power to stop it.”

“Yes I will!” shouted Ricky, his fists clenched by his sides. “I have the sort of power that only shows itself once a century!”

“Do you ever listen to yourself when you speak like this?” scoffed Tinsley. “The worst thing a person can do is convince themselves that they’re more powerful than they are. You’re setting yourself up for disaster.”

“I don’t think I’ll take advice on power from someone who can’t even look a person in the eye and admit they’re attracted to them,” came the spiteful response. “You’re a coward, Tinsley. And you always have been.”

Tinsley stared him in the eye. Then he gave him a rough shove in the chest, hard enough to cause Ricky to stumble backwards and fall flat on the sand. Ricky propped himself on his elbows, his face burning and eyes bright with indignance. He pushed himself to his feet, for a moment seeming as if he was going to continue their argument, as if he was going to strike him back. Then, muttering and cursing, he turned away and stormed off into the dark.

Tinsley didn’t come after him. Ricky didn’t care. He walked far into the dunes, but not too far. He didn’t let the fire out of his sights, but he knew Tinsley had no chance of seeing him from this distance. Ricky paced back and forth, arms folded across his chest, still muttering and mumbling. Every few seconds he checked to see if Tinsley was going to come after him, and each time he was disappointed. Ricky gritted his teeth at his own desperate need for Tinsley’s attention, but he also knew that Tinsley had stoked this need within him, had stoked it to a white-hot blaze. Ricky’s thoughts were loud in his head, louder than the sounds of crunching reeds and softly shifting sand around him.

A hand clamped over his mouth. For a split second, Ricky was simply confused. Then his eyes flew wide open, and he grabbed hold of the arm that was now around his neck, dragging him further into the dark. Ricky kicked out, he tried to cry out, to call for Tinsley. He felt another pair of hands on him, and they roughly bound his wrists, and thick fabric was shoved into his mouth, and still he kicked and struggled and tried to scream. He managed to worm his way out of the pair of hands that held him, falling to the sand and trying desperately to crawl away, but another pair of hands were waiting to catch him. He could make out shadowy figures in the dark, smelling of hot blood and death. He was dragged by his hair, kicking out, tears of fear in his eyes. In a sudden burst of clear thought, he tugged the ring he had gotten in Snow’s End off his finger, and it landed silently in the sand. The fire, and Tinsley, vanished behind a high dune. 

* * *

Tinsley remained by the fire for five minutes. Then ten minutes. Then twenty. He eventually lifted his head and looked into the shadows where Ricky had vanished. Nothing moved. He finally let himself feel anxious. He got to his feet, dusting himself off before going the way Ricky had gone. He entered the reeds within seconds, and kept going. Ricky wouldn’t have gone too far. He certainly wouldn’t have let the fire go out of his sights. And more than that, he had left his coat on the beach. He wouldn't have left that behind. Or would he have? Tinsley knew he had been harsh in his words, harsher in the way he was treating Ricky. He wasn’t sure why he was acting the way he was. He did want Ricky, and yet he also knew he shouldn't have him. Some moments he felt that it didn't truly matter whether or not he lay with Ricky; his chances of going back to the Roost were ridiculously slim as it was. But minutes later he’d feel a wave of shame at losing control of himself. Maybe he should just say it to Ricky. Provide some sort of explanation for himself.

“Ricky?” He turned his head; the fire was distant now. Ricky wouldn’t have gone much further than this. “Ricky. I know you’re around here somewhere.”

No response. Just the distant whispers of waves. Tinsley swallowed, folding his arms across his chest.

“Right. Okay. I guess I see where you’re coming from. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. But… But you could listen, maybe.” He went quiet, waiting for a reply. When none came, he continued, his voice a bit more urgent than before. “I know it’s wrong for me to treat you how I’ve been treating you. I know it’s not fair. But I’m not doing it on purpose, and I’m not doing it for fun, either. I’m just confused. And maybe I should just keep my confusion to myself but… I don’t feel in halves about you. If that makes sense. I either hate you for a reason I can’t remember anymore, or I… want to be closer to you.” He waited then, with bated breath. Surely Ricky would respond to that level of honesty. But still, nothing. Tinsley could feel himself going red in the face. He felt a fool. “Ricky, come on. At least let me know if I’m making sense. At least let me know if you understand me.”

The breeze whistled through the reed, solitary. Tinsley glanced back at the fire, hoping to see that maybe Ricky had returned when he hadn’t been looking, but there was no figure illuminated by the flames, no shadows thrown. Tinsley swallowed hard, feeling a sudden lump in his throat. 

“Ricky, just let me know you’re listening.”

It suddenly struck him that maybe Ricky really _had_ gone. Could he really have just left like that? Without a word? Without a warning? Did he really have the coldness to tell Tinsley that he knew he didn’t really want to be alone, before leaving him more lonely than ever before? Tinsley felt hot tears prick his eyes, gathering heavy on his lashes. He stood for a moment among the dunes, hugging himself against the chill in the air. Reluctantly, he turned away and went back to the fire. He shed his tears in privacy, quiet, his eyes pressed into his elbow, letting his coat sleeve soak up the teardrops.

Only in the crisp grey dawn of the next day did Tinsley finally realize what had happened. After putting out the smouldering embers of the fire and gathering his things, he strode out across the dunes to check for any sign of Ricky, any sign that he had been crouched nearby, listening to his words. Tinsley wondered what he would do if he found out Ricky had heard him and ignored him. He would be angry beyond words, he knew that much. Perhaps so angry that the next time he saw Ricky he wouldn’t hesitate to kill him for being so cruel. His eyes were still raw from his tears before he'd fallen asleep. He hadn't cried like that in a long time. Each moment spent with Ricky was awakening some old emotion he had tuned out long ago. Tinsley still wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not. But then something had jerked him from his thoughts, winking at him from across the sand. Something bright and silver. Tinsley had gone to it, picked it up and held it to the light. It was unmistakable - forged in Snow’s End, with a pitch-black stone of onyx as the centrepiece. This wasn’t something that would’ve simply fallen off. Ricky had pulled off his ring and dropped it there, for a reason that Tinsley knew instantly. He had warned Ricky about it in Snow's End, warned him as a jest. His heart plunged down into his stomach. Was it his fault? Had he tempted fate? He straightened up and whistled for Sky, and miles away she woke with a snap of her feathered wings.


	18. The Temples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I'm awaiting a lover. I have to be rent and pulled apart and live according to the demons and the imagination in me. I'm restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.”_ \- Anaïs Nin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little warning, there's mentions of non-con in this chapter and in the next few chapters - there won't be anything graphic, but it is discussed/hinted at.
> 
> also there's a few nsfw scenes in this chapter too! not non-con :)

Fran woke to a panicked knocking on the door to her apartment. She grabbed the clock from her bedside table, squinting blearily at the hands. It was half three in the morning. The knocking continued, unabashed. Fran scrambled out of bed, grabbing her robe off the floor and pulling it on as she hurried out of her room, through the kitchen, into the hall, her feet padding against the floorboards. The knocking was still frantic. Fran yanked open the door, blinked her bleary eyes, and mumbled, “Darla?”

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Darla welcomed herself in. There were two bright spots of colour high on her cheeks. “Do you have a moment?”

Fran closed the door over, still feeling entirely frazzled. “Why are you here? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Do you want coffee?”

“I- Yes. But first, can you tell me why you’re here?”

Darla didn’t respond. She seemed completely distracted, spilling water as she overfilled the kettle. “Do you want to go somewhere?”

“Somewhere?” Fran stood in the doorway to the kitchen, arms folded. “Darla, what’s happened?”

“Nothing happened. Nothing.” She hung the kettle over the small fire in the wall. Then she started searching about for mugs. “Do you remember when you promised your dad you wouldn’t transcribe another book?”

“Yes..?”

“What would happen if you broke that promise?”

Fran was careful. “What do you mean?”

“Would he know?” Darla waved her hands at her head. “Intuitively?”

“Probably not. The People of the End can’t read minds, as much as they like to pretend they can.” Fran fetched the small glass jar of coffee from the cupboard that Darla was rifling around looking for. “But I’d still feel bad. So I probably wouldn’t break the promise anyway.”

“Do you take sugar?”

“A little. Darla, slow down.” She caught hold of Darla’s hands, holding them still. She looked her in the eye. “What’s wrong?”

Darla swallowed hard, her eyes shifting. “Word got out from the Head Professor’s annual meeting. It’s bad. It’s very bad.” She took a breath. “The Council are going to burn down the libraries.”

For a moment, Fran didn’t know what to say. This moment expanded into more moments, and then more moments. Eventually she said, “When?”

“I don’t know. Maybe by the end of the week?” 

“That’s… They can’t do that.”

“There’s more. They’re going to build a new library and fill it with the books they approve of. All the other books are going to be left in the libraries to burn.”

Fran’s mind stuttered. She pictured all those books,all their pages worn delicate by age, all the writing that held the secrets to the land around her, to the people around her, the scrawled fading ink, the neat print, the diagrams and carefully painted images of things she had never seen and never would see out of a book. She pictured the forbidden sections of the library, which held truths that could possibly turn the city upside down, that could change the way people thought, the way they acted. She pictured all of it burnt to ash, and in the future some other buildings built on top of these graves of knowledge. Forgotten about. Discarded. The whole world starting anew in the hands of those who destroyed it.

“That’s not- It’s not right. It’s not _fair.”_ She rested a hand over her mouth, her eyes distant. “Where did you hear this from?”

“One of the servers who was at the meeting. The High Councillor said he’s going to have each professor’s quarters searched too.”

“The professors? What did they say? Surely they didn’t agree?”

“What else are they to do? They have no power either. They were unhappy, of course, but it didn’t go much further than that.” Darla poured hot water into their mugs, and the smell of coffee wafted through the air. “They’re not safe either. The Council would throw them into Greatlight at even a hint of dissent.”

“But then what are we to do?” Fran accepted the mug handed to her, and she was so numb with shock she hardly felt the heat against her palms. “We can’t do anything. I’ll cry if they burn down the libraries. I’ll leave.”

“Don’t leave!” blurted Darla, before swiftly recovering, taking a sip of her coffee to appear casual. “There _is_ something we can do. Something I’ve been doing for a long while. But you’d need to be aware that you might be breaking the promise you made to your dad.”

Fran turned this over in her mind. It’s true, she would feel terribly, terribly guilty for breaking a promise to her father. She had never had him scold her like he had when he found out about the book she transcribed. It wasn’t often she saw him angry. And yet… The thought of those books, burning away to a crisp… The thought that she could help save them, help save even one of them… She looked at Darla.

“Let me get dressed first.”

She hurried into the bathroom, removing the satin bonnet from her hair, taking out the few hair ties she had put in the night before. She neatened the roots with a few sprays of water and gave her hair a shake with her fingers before scrambling out of her pajamas and into a shirt and trousers. She pulled on her boots, tying them tight. She poked her head back into the kitchen, where Darla sat on the table, swinging her legs back and forth. 

“Should I wear my cloak or no?”

Darla shook her head, her dark hair bouncing. “No. Definitely no.”

Fran nodded, deciding not to question the ‘definitely’. “Okay. Well then let’s go.”

Darla hopped down off the table and let Fran lead the way out of the apartment. “If anyone asks why we’re out so late, just say we’re getting coffee.”

“Sure.” Fran hurried down the stairwell, hearing Darla hurrying behind her. She wasn’t quite sure why they were hurrying so much, but given the hour and the circumstances it felt like the right thing to do. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“The old School of Dreams and Omens.”

Fran came to a halt. “The one that’s supposedly haunted.”

Darla grinned widely. “That’s the one!”

“Why there? It’s locked up.”

“Well I’m obviously not going to lead you to a locked up building,” laughed Darla, taking the lead as they headed out into the streets. Thankfully, the mist was still lingering. “Trust me, Fran.”

The School of Dreams and Omens was a strange group of buildings. The milk-white stone that the buildings were constructed from made it seem as if they were an exposed part of the earth’s skeleton. They looked old enough to be so. Bridges curved back and forth between the buildings, all of which were five stories tall and near identical from a distance. Up close, however, it was easy to see that each building was actually entirely different from the next, carved from base to roof like giant sculptures. They depicted scenes of battle and scenes of romance, of death and life and everything that occurs in between. The faces of the people carved were ghostly, forever held in place by the white stone.

It was quiet around the walls, as if the rest of the city had melted away into the fog like sugar into water. No one wished to live near the School; it brought bad luck, many thought. Just like the old School of Law and Justice, which had also been forced to close within days of Dreams and Omens. Fran stood outside the gates, breathing in the cold air. She watched in silence as Darla went to the side of the gate that was on hinges and wiggled the bottom hinge free. She waved at Fran to follow before slipping in through the small gap.

“Do the Librarians not come around here?” whispered Fran. The iron of the gate was cold against her hands. The white paint crumbled when she touched it.

“Not often. I think they think it’s cursed.”

Fran started at her surroundings, taking it all in, one slow step at a time. The buildings were giant, ghostly tombstones, laid out perfectly. The bridges that joined them together were elaborate open walkways with no railings to be seen. It all appeared to be some city of the dead. Fran moved towards the nearest building, ignoring Darla saying she was going the wrong way. She just wanted to have a look inside.

The doors stood half-open. Inside was pure darkness. The smell of lavender and jasmine hung in the air. Fran stepped in, taking a moment to allow her eyes to adjust. When they did, she took another moment to allow herself to adjust. The interior of the building was just as much a work of art as the exterior. Frescoes covered the walls, depicting various scenes from times long past. The nearest was a vast depiction of the ocean, with white choppy waves. A lone figure in a long black cloak stood on a stone seastack in the centre. There appeared to be blue tendrils across the person’s skin. Behind them a wave was coming, a wave that could wipe a city aside as easily as a hand swipes crumbs from a tabletop. It was too dark for Fran to gather much more detail from it. She moved onto the next one.

A woman with long blonde hair and eyes as blue as the sky on a summer’s morning. She held a bloodied crown in her hands, and blood dripped from her eyes like tears. Fran quickly moved on from this one; it was too unsettling for her liking.

The next fresco was more similar to the first, with its rendering of the sea and a stormy sky above it. Yet although the person looked similar, with a long dark cloak and blue tendrils on their skin, they also looked different. They seemed taller than before, and with white-blonde hair. The following painting showed a man, again with a bloody crown in hand. His eyes were different to those of the previous woman who held the crown - dark instead of blue - yet they showed the same sadness. He also wore the same clothing; a high-necked cloak adorned with gold.

The light was growing dimmer the further Fran went into the building, so she moved back to the door, her boots crunching against the dust and small pieces of debris below, and she started observing the frescoes on the opposite side of the wall. The first showed a woman, stern and proud, seated in an elaborate stone chair. A crown sat atop her head, the same crown that was held by the paintings of the people weeping blood. A glimmering yellow jewel was set above her shoulder, but whatever figure it had adorned had long faded from the plaster, leaving nothing but a few curling swathes of grey paint.

Darla joined Fran in examining the frescoes, the windows to the past. The next one was a woman with black curled hair, the same gleaming crown on her head. She had the same unfathomable eyes as the first, and sat in the same stone seat. Her head was held high, but it was hard to tell whether this was due to pride or just due to the high neck of her cloak. The cloak was identical in style to the ones that the people with the bloody crowns wore.

“The monarchs,” said Darla into the quiet. Her breath disturbed the dust particles in the air. “They used to rule the land. Now they don’t even exist.”

Fran nodded, but her eyes were still glued to the artwork. “Those cloaks look familiar.”

“They look like ours,” said Darla, pulling at her own high collar.

“No. No, they look like something different.”

Darla shrugged. "It doesn't matter, does it? They're all dead. Now come on."

Fran reluctantly followed her back outside. "What did the School of Dreams and Omens do exactly?"

Darla shrugged again. "I have no idea, and you won't get told by anyone. It's as taboo as it gets, I think."

A sudden scrabble of debris made the two women freeze, hands grasping each other's arms. Darla shuffled closer to Fran, her head whipping around, trying to find the source of the sound. The sound of a pebble falling to the ground made Fran feel as if she might faint from the stress. If a Librarian stepped out of the shadows, they would have no excuse as to why they were there. They would be put to trial, which meant an endless time in Greatlight. She watched the direction where the sound had come from, her teeth clenched hard enough to hurt.

From the shadows came a single calico cat. It gave the trespassers one long, disapproving look before continuing along on its dainty paws. Fran clamped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing too loudly with relief. Darla didn't laugh; she was as pale as death, spooked beyond words, her hands still grasping Fran's arm.

"We should go," she whispered, her round eyes still darting around, seeing a tall looming figure in every corner. "I'll show you some other time."

"Tomorrow," said Fran. "Promise you'll show me tomorrow."

"Okay. Okay. I promise."

* * *

After a few miles of walking, his captors had removed the gag from his mouth. Ricky took this as a very bad sign indeed; wherever they were going, no one was going to answer any calls for help.

His captors were two men who smoked cigarettes a lot and seemed to find their entertainment in prodding Ricky hard in the back with the blunt ends of the spears they carried. They sat on horses, one either side of him. Ricky didn’t try to speak to them. He remained silent, the fear in his chest growing harder with every step he took away from Tinsley. He remembered Tinsley’s words about the midlands, about people who didn’t only take a person’s belongings to sell but took the person too. Were these the people he had been talking about? Yet they didn’t look like bandits. Their clothing matched, some sort of dark-brown uniform, with leather armour.

Ricky let out a sharp curse, stumbling forwards a step as the end of a spear jabbed him hard between the shoulders. One of his captors spoke.

“Must be a bit of a dumb one. Didn’t even take the time to wipe off the paint.”

Ricky didn’t comment. He knew they were talking about his markings. He just kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, teeth gritted.

“I thought I’d have noticed this one before,” said the other guard, also taking the time to give Ricky a poke in the shoulder. “Pretty one.”

“The pretty ones are the ones you can’t trust,” replied the first guard, as if there was any wisdom to be found in the sentence at all.

“Trust? I don’t care about that. I care about putting this one facedown in a pillow and having my way with him for a night. How would you like that, pretty one?” The guard jabbed at him again with the spear. “I’d say you’re expensive. How much for an hour?”

He and the first guard laughed raucously. Ricky kept moving, avoiding their eyes. He didn’t like the path that the conversation had taken. In his head, he called for Tinsley. Surely he would’ve noticed that Ricky was missing by now. Surely he would come after him. For once, Ricky had no doubts. He knew Tinsley would come after him. He held onto this thought, this glimmer of hope, and the certainty he wielded with it.

The guard stopped his horse, nodding to the first guard to do the same. Ricky pretended he didn’t notice them dismounting, until a hand grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“Where are you in such a hurry to go to?”

Ricky tilted his head away, his lip curling and nose wrinkling at the smell of the man’s breath; stale smoke and alcohol. The guard grinned widely.

“You’re actually too pretty to have facedown.”

Ricky pulled away, twisting his hands in their bindings. “Don’t touch me.”

“Don’t touch you?” He laughed, raising his eyebrows at his friend. “He’s definitely an expensive one, if he can say those words.”

He took hold of Ricky again, a hand on each of his arms, and Ricky struggled fiercely. He dug his heels into the ground as the guard tried to drag him closer. He kicked out and wriggled furiously in the guard’s grip. He cursed at them, and they laughed at him in return. The first guard took hold of Ricky’s bindings and simply dragged him down to the ground like a ragdoll. He held Ricky’s wrists above his head as the second guard began untucking Ricky’s shirt before starting at the lacing of his trousers. Ricky didn’t stop struggling for a second, trying to kick at the guard, but the man’s arms held his legs apart as his hands made horribly quick work of his trouser’s lacing. Ricky was panting for breath, his eyes wide, and he shouted: “Tinsley! _Tinsley!”_

“Shut up!”

“TINSLEY!”

“Wait.” The guard who held Ricky’s wrists was staring at his skin closely. “Wait, come here.”

The second guard muttered and grumbled before leaning over Ricky to see what exactly was of interest. “What?”

“The paint won’t come off.”

“What do you mean it won’t come off?” The guard went quiet as the first one wiped a hand over Ricky’s forearm, up and down, hard. “Impossible. Like Nerisei?”

“Like the old ones. They all have the real thing.”

The guard sat back, looking down at Ricky’s furious face. “Where did you come from?”

Ricky spat at him. Luckily for him, he missed. The second guard looked at the first one.

“What if he’s not from the Temples?”

“He has to be. Where else would he be from?”

“I’m from Storm’s Eye,” muttered Ricky. The grass was rough and coarse against his back, poking through his shirt. He wanted to be let up. “I’ve never been to the Temples.”

“You’re a liar as well as a defector, hm?”

“I’m neither,” replied Ricky icily. “I’ve never been to the Temples.”

“Let him up,” said the first guard. “Nerisei might want to see him. And then Seia might get involved. It's better for us if we hand him in unharmed.”

Ricky closed his eyes, letting out a subtle sigh of relief through his nose as the second guard stood up. Ricky sat upright, hurriedly doing up his trousers again.

“C’mon. Stand up.” The first guard took him by the collar of his shirt, dragging him upright. “Not much longer to go anyhow.”

Ricky shook the man’s hand off, glaring at him. “I don’t need help to walk.”

The guard squinted at him. “I don’t think he _is_ from the Temples. The way he acts is too… alive.”

The second guard was already back on his horse, lighting another cigarette. “Well, it’s going to be his new home, so he’d best get dead quickly.”

Once both guards were back on their horses, they poked and prodded at Ricky to keep going. Ricky gritted his teeth in irritation, but he squared his shoulders and placed one foot in front of the other. If this was the path he had to take, then he would take it. The gods had a plan for him. He knew they did.

The people on the road grew more numerous as they traveled on. Some were going the opposite direction, stumbling and shouting in their drunken states. Some were going the same direction, and although half of these were drunkards too, the other half wasn't. They were quiet, downtrodden, their heads hanging forwards. Ricky saw a few in the same situation as him. A woman looked at him with tears in her eyes as she was pulled onward by a guard. He closed his eyes and hoped and hoped that the gods hadn't given him too painful of a path.

He smelled the city before he saw it, and when he saw it it matched its stench. One side of the city bordered the sea, the other side was walled. It rivaled the size of Snow's End, although lacking the grandiosity. The walls of this city were high and made of timber splattered with bird droppings. The weak attempt at paint was flaking away in large chunks. Beyond these walls he could see ramshackle houses, packed in tightly, piled on top of each other, like someone had emptied a bucket of buildings into the walls like slop out a window. They were painted with faded pastels and dirty whitewash. Three tall, pointed towers seemingly carved from the rock of the earth stood tall near the sea. They were ugly, crude structures, and they dominated the rest of the city, standing ten times taller than the tallest house. He couldn't stop staring at them as he was escorted in through the gate.

The streets were churned mud and dirt. The two guards dismounted, and each took one of Ricky's arms. He could hear people laughing and shrieking, drunken shouting and slurring, a scream or two. He wrinkled his nose at the overwhelming smell of rot, and tried to bury his nose in his elbow to fend off the stench.

"You get used to it," grunted the first guard.

Ricky just narrowed his eyes at him, but he let them drag him onward.

He couldn't imagine Tinsley in a city like this. Stern, controlled, neat Tinsley, in these streets? In these buildings? Socializing with these people? Even as Ricky watched he could see a brawl in full swing down an alleyway. He simply couldn't picture Tinsley fitting in anywhere, the way he stood straight and tall, shoulders back, head high, his nose in the air and his self-importance rivaling the self-loathing he had for his own desires. Tinsley hated his desires. He hated having wants. Yet supposedly he had spent not only a day, but a fortnight within these stinking walls? Ricky almost didn't want to meet the Tinsley from then; he imagined him a frightful, wild creature, broken in two and terrified because of it, lashing out at anyone who came too close. Ricky couldn't stop thinking of him.

Gradually, the city grew somewhat neater, somewhat softer, yet there was still an undercurrent of vulgarity, of indecency. Women and men stood in windows above without an inch of clothing on, smoking and talking among themselves. Some had the same markings as Ricky, although he could see where they were smudging somewhat. In all honesty, Ricky could have felt at home, if it wasn't for the horribleness of the place.

A woman leaned out the window overhead, laughing harshly. A golden earring dangled from one ear. "Give us a kiss, pretty boy!"

Ricky scowled at her as he passed. No one on Storm's Eye would talk to each other with such disrespect.

He began to see the woman's earring everywhere, until he noticed that almost everyone had one hanging from their left ear. Some had smudged blackness around their eyes, making them appear oddly salacious when they looked him up and down. Some had their fingernails painted dark colours. He hadn't noticed any of this until now.

"They wear that stuff to make themselves seem more mysterious," said the second guard, seeing him looking around with interest. "But only here. This is where the fancy whores are. The cheap ones live at the outer edges."

"Where do you think he'd go?" asked the first guard to the second, as if Ricky had vanished. 

"Oh, fancy, for sure. Look at those luscious locks."

Ricky jerked his head away as the guard ruffled his hair hard. But instead of snapping at him, he asked, "What are the earrings?"

"They mark out what whorehouse you're from," said the first guard. "Think of a colour painted on a sheep. Each farmer has their own colour. Red is Jory's. Green is Konan's. White is Lacilia's. Dark blue is Senara's. And so on."

Ricky had tuned out. His head was tilted upward to watch the towers looming higher and higher over them, and they were still a few streets away. He set his jaw, looking ahead. He remembered the name Nerisei. He remembered what that innkeeper had told him and Tinsley about the Year's Hunt. Ricky could almost smell this Nerisei's true faith to the gods curdling and rotting away in this pit of a city. She had no right to any markings she had. He would take them from her very skin if he had to.

But he didn't get to meet her. The guards at the doors to the towers shook their heads, saying she was busy 'testing faiths'. Ricky didn't like the sound of that. He didn't like how the guards swapped looks when they heard it. Yet still, the guards at the tower doors rubbed at Ricky's markings and marveled at how they didn't rub off, and then observed the youth in his face, and talked about how nonsensical it was for him to be an old one. After this, Ricky was taken away, back into the city.

"Well what'll we do with him now?" sighed the first guard.

The second shrugged. "Sell him for some coin. Lacilia pays well, if she sees an investment."

The first guard looked at Ricky's face again, as if making sure he _was_ an investment. "You don't think he's too unruly? She doesn't like that in her workers."

Ricky let them talk between themselves about his fate. He closed his eyes and wished Tinsley would fly in on his griffin and take him away, back to the beach, and this time Ricky would do everything right. He wouldn't force his mouth on Tinsley's. He would be patient and he would be soft, for as long as it took.

The guards brought him to Lacilia's. Her house was three storeys tall and painted a pleasant lilac. The windows were edged with clear white paint. They knocked upon a back door that seemed to be below ground level. The door opened, and a heavy woman in an apron looked at them expectantly. Then she called for someone further in the kitchens. A man came to the door. He was broad-shouldered and had a thicket of dark hair and matching brows. His mouth was a grim line. He looked Ricky over. He turned him from side to side, and Ricky gritted his teeth at the man touched him all over, feeling him under his clothes, pulling up his shirt to see the markings on his chest properly, his touch rough and eyes rougher. Then he nodded to the woman in the apron. She took Ricky in and cut the ropes around his wrists with a kitchen knife. Ricky wondered if he would ever arrive in a city and not be sold at some back door like a vegetable for soup.

The door closed, and the two guards were gone. The man who had evaluated Ricky simply sat back down at the table he had been at and continued reading his book. The woman in the apron brought Ricky upstairs. She didn't speak to him. If anything she viewed him as an inconvenience; she had been in the middle of cooking up dinner for the house. She led him to a room, unlocked it with a key from the ring in her apron pocket, pushed him to go inside, and locked it. Ricky let out a long, heavy sigh, his eyes closing. It was relief he was feeling. Relief at being given to a house at this side of the city. After a moment or so he opened his eyes and had a look around.

A bed sat in the middle of the room, on a thick dark rug, equidistant from all walls. The frame was made from a black iron, and the bedsheets and covers appeared to be quite luxurious; patterned in swirling golds and mauves and crimsons, some with a velvet sheen, others a soft, sheer material. The pillows looked thick and heavy with down. Around the bed were a few chaise lounges, deep red and gold, also strewn with patterned fabrics. Ricky moved through them towards the bed. He wasn't innocent. He knew that this bed was in the open so that those watching could choose from where they wished to view. It wasn't the first time Ricky had seen a set-up like it. There had been many a similar night in Storm's Eye, although much less plush and decorated.

Unlit candles were plenty, on all flat surfaces that Ricky could see, and there were flagons of wine too. He helped himself to a cup, taking a mouthful as he continued his investigating. There was a view out the window, and it showed dozens of similar houses, wooden and painted, all the way until the sea. Some were narrow and four stories tall. Some were a single story, but wide, and with a bare patch of land in the centre. Some looked like little two-story houses. They all had signs swinging above their doors, sending up a chorus of creaks into the air, where the screeching of gulls sang along. He knew that if he went to the other side of the building and looked out a window there, he'd see hundreds of these houses, the paint growing duller and flakier the further away they were. On that side of the house, he was sure the stench from the city would be somewhat worse too.

There was no beach; just a stony drop. If Ricky stuck his head out far enough and looked left, he could see the temples that gave the city its name. They looked altogether very foreboding, not welcoming at all in the slightest, which went against his beliefs entirely. In fact, there was no need for temples of any kind in his religion. These ones were for nothing but show, he assumed. The longer he looked at them, the more angry he felt himself becoming, and that voice in his head muttered and hissed. He tore himself away from the sight, closing the window over.

There was a polite knock at the door. He half-turned to look at it. "Come in."

A small, slight woman came in. She was relatively young, perhaps in her early twenties, and wore a long thick dressing robe and a matching headscarf around her blonde hair. For a moment, Ricky was alarmed as to why she was here; firstly, she was a woman, and secondly, she was too young for him. But she introduced herself as Maie, and said she was here to bring him to bathe.

"Bathe?" Ricky downed the rest of his cup, setting it aside, as casual as if he had been living in this room for years now. "Yes please."

But to his surprise, she didn't lead him out the door and through the streets to the beach. She led him further and further down into the house. He was certain it went underground; every other sound had disappeared entirely. He could hear running water nearby. Did all the houses stretch down like this? A maze of tunnels underground to reflect the maze of streets above?

"Is it true that your markings don't come off?" asked Maie, taking his hand and leading him through another doorway; the casualness of the touch made Ricky's heart break with homesickness. It had been a long time since someone had shown such uninhibited affection. "That's what we've heard. Though I guess I'll find out in a minute."

The air was growing heavier and more humid the further they walked. "They don't come off. Where I'm from, it's strange to paint them on. Very strange."

"Does it not hurt to get them on?"

"Yes. It hurt a lot. For a day and a night." Ricky shrugged. "And a few days and nights after. But it was worth it. To show your faith on your skin is one of the greatest acts of loyalty."

She gave him an odd look. "Yeah, we were told that too. Everyone stops believing it at around fifteen."

"Stops believing?" Ricky was beyond words. It was one thing to never have believed, but to believe and rescind your belief at such a young age? At _any_ age? "Why?"

Maie stopped at the next door. "Let's just say we're both very lucky to be in a house like Lacilia's. Some houses are horrible." Her eyes drifted, her brows drawing together slightly. "Monstrous places." Then she blinked, and looked at him again. "But come along. And take off your clothes. Leave them out here. They'll get washed separately."

Ricky did so; his shirt, his trousers, his socks and underwear and boots. He missed his coat. He felt strange without it; it counted for half of his presence, he believed. It was large and dark and swept the ground as he walked. And then Tinsley had turned up in his own attention-demanding coat, except _his_ one had gold patched to it like armour and gleamed in the sunlight. Ricky thought that perhaps they should've swapped coats; he was much more suited to glowing in the sun, and Tinsley was as dark and dour as the night sky was black. Or was he? Ricky had to admit that he had seen a glimpse of blue sky in Tinsley's otherwise cloudy demeanour. It was rare, but it was there.

"Do you want to bathe alone or have someone help?"

Ricky stared at her. Back on Storm's Eye, it was normal to sit in water with someone. Here the act of bathing tended to be hidden behind a screen. Until now. "Someone to help would be... very nice."

"Okay." She pushed open the door, and a wave of heavily-scented steam wafted out. "Wait inside. The water's cool, but the air stays hot."

Ricky wasn't surprised that the air stayed hot. Not only were there candles on every surface he could see - they seemed to adore candles in this house - but there were giant furnaces in each corner, with chopped firewood piled beside them. The rooms branched off as far as he could see, and the furnaces dotted them, bathing them in a dim golden light. The space for water was dug out into the ground, and the water itself glimmered from room to room, connected each to the other. There were steps cut into the side of the bath, and Ricky went down them. Compared to the seawater in Storm's Eye, this was as warm as a lover's breath. But there were similarities too; he could hear the sounds of two people making love nearby, he could just about see them through the steam in the air. He was of two minds to go over, until he realized it was two women. His interest subsided rapidly. He hoped Maie brought a man.

He submerged himself up to his chest in the water before ducking under entirely, to where sounds slurred and echoed and his hair floated like black silk. The sight of his hair like so stirred his memory, but when he tried to recall why, it vanished. He straightened up out of the water again, pushing his hair back off his face before shaking it free of the heavy wetness that clung to it. Maie had returned and was fetching a cloth, a small copper bowl, and some glass bottles with coloured liquids inside them. She had indeed brought back men, two of them. They were already in the water, chatting between themselves. One had white-blonde hair and pale skin like milk, and the other had hair a glossy black and a constant warmth in his face. Each wore a golden earring. It seemed they had been discussing him, as their eyes snapped to him instantly. The blonde one came closer, looking at Ricky's markings closely.

"It's true then?" he said. "They're permanent?"

Ricky nodded, extending an arm to let him touch them. "They're in my skin. Not on it."

"Really?" The other man approached too, after Maie had passed him a cloth. He took hold of Ricky's other arm, wiping the wet cloth up and down along it. "I've only ever seen them on Nerisei and the old ones."

"Who are the old ones?" Ricky sat on the submerged seat carved along the sides of the baths, and the two men sat either side of him. Maie sat behind him, her legs tucked underneath her as she began rubbing a clear soap between her hands and massaging it into his hair. "I've heard them mentioned."

"They're the ones who started up this city," said the blonde man. His lashes were blonde too, almost transparent, and his nails were painted black. "They've been here since forever."

"They're the most devout," said the other man with a knowing nod. "Are you devout?"

Ricky nodded, letting them wash his arms, his shoulders, his chest. It felt good, beyond words. He had forgotten the simple pleasure of touching another person and being touched back. "Are you not?"

"Not particularly."

Ricky let the brown-haired man take his hand and trim his nails before scrubbing them clean. At least they used proper tools, a little scissors and a rough-bristled brush. He had watched Tinsley clean his hands more than once, yet he just used his dagger, keeping it sharp enough to trim the nail, using the point to get rid of the dirt underneath. Ricky didn't have the same confidence with a blade, but he found it interesting to watch. He liked Tinsley's hands. They were large and strong, yet also strangely delicate, the fingers long and slim. Occasionally, he had dreamed of them, both asleep and awake.

"What are your names?" he said, forcing his mind back to the present.

"Haron," said the dark-haired man. He wasn't sure why he answered with his real name instead of his bed name. This man spoke with such a casual authority it caught him off-guard. "And this is Dalyn. What's yours?"

"Ricky." He took a slow breath, resting his head back into Maie's hands as Haron slid the cloth under the water, wiping it back and forth along his waist. Ricky bit his lip. "Mm. That feels nice."

Haron smiled, seeing how Dalyn watched Ricky's lips curiously. "Good."

Haron slowly pushed the cloth back up Ricky's stomach to his chest, and the water trickled noisily from the wet fabric. Ricky placed his hand on Haron's, holding the cloth there as he turned his head to look him in the eye. Dalyn used his own cloth to clean Ricky's shoulders, pushing it across the back of his neck, leaning in close to breathe against Ricky's ear, and Ricky didn't look away from Haron once. He smiled a knowing smile, raising a hand to cup the side Dalyn's face where it was still close to his. He felt Dalyn's teeth close softly on his ear, and Haron's hand slipped back under the water, rubbing the cloth lower and lower down Ricky's stomach, watching his eyes. Ricky didn't mind those like Dalyn, who were needy and let their need be known, but he much preferred a challenge.

"Do you like being loved in water?" asked Haron, coming closer.

Ricky smiled at him, his eyes drifting down to his lips. “I was born from water.”

Haron came a bit closer, slipping his arm around Ricky’s shoulders and drawing him forwards into a kiss. Ricky pressed forwards against him, a hand running up along the back of his neck, running through his hair, his other hand pressed to his chest. He felt Dalyn take his hand from Haron’s chest and press a kiss to his palm, then his wrist, working his way up his arm to his shoulder and finally fixating on his neck, his body laying along Ricky’s. Ricky held Dalyn’s head against his throat, letting out a low sigh into Haron’s mouth. He had missed this, people who knew how to love. Haron started kissing his chest, and Ricky lifted his hips as he felt Haron’s hand slide down between his legs. He placed his own hand over Haron’s, guiding it where he wanted it. Maie just continued washing Ricky’s hair, pouring the water through it, adding the jasmine-scented oil to soften it; this clearly wasn’t too wild of a scene for her, and she seemed content as long as no one tried to touch her, so no one did.

Ricky rested his head back against the side of the bath, letting out a long, breathy sigh, his eyes closing as Maie smoothly detangled his hair with an ivory comb. This was the treatment he deserved, he thought. He hadn’t realized just how roughly Tinsley handled him until now. He would stay here for a while, he decided. He would stay in this comfort before heading back out into the greater discomfort of the world. Haron kissed his throat and his shoulder, his mouth traveling between them at a leisurely pace, his hand still between Ricky’s legs, pleasuring him with his fingers just as slowly and deeply as he kissed him. Dalyn kissed his chest, using Ricky’s thigh to rub himself against, moaning quietly. Ricky kept his eyes closed and imagined it was Tinsley’s hand between his legs, and Anton who straddled his thigh, and the thought of it multiplied his pleasure by thousands. He pushed his hips into Haron’s hand, his mouth parted as he let out short, shallow moans. When Haron and Dalyn each placed a mouth on his chest and started to suck, he let his body react, his back curving forwards as they fixated on a nipple each. He let his head fall back, his breaths sharp and erratic, one hand in Haron's hair and the other gripping the edge of the bath behind his shoulder. He would stay here for as long as he liked, he decided. The pleasure surged from Haron's hand between his legs, from the mouths on his chest, the warmth of the water against his skin.

“I didn’t think you two were on until this evening,” said a woman’s voice.

Ricky opened his eyes as the two men stopped kissing him, and he frowned as their touches slowed to a halt. He held Haron’s hand between his legs, encouraging him to keep going as he looked around for the owner of the voice. It was a tall, thin woman with copper hair and dark brows, her skin almost the same olive colour as his own. She wore heavy black makeup around her eyes that extended in two large wings at the outer corners, and her lips were painted a vivid red. Although she spoke sternly, she didn’t sound too angered. Ricky could’ve killed her for interrupting; his heart was hammering in his chest, his pulse pounding through his body. She looked at Maie, who was standing by the table against the far wall, having left the situation as soon as she saw where it was going.

“Is this the new one?”

Maie nodded, squeezing the cloth she held into a pot for wastewater. “Yes.”

“Have you informed him about what he is here to do?”

“Yes.”

“And is it true about him?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She looked at Ricky, gesturing at him to get out of the bath. Her hand moved sharply; she was used to not having to do more than gesture. “Let me see you.”

Ricky pouted; Haron and Dalyn had seemingly moved on, kissing each other now, hands running over each other’s bodies as they drifted into the water. He wanted to ignore the woman and climb back into between the two men, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate that. She seemed to be somewhat in charge of the place, by the clothing she wore and the authority in her voice. So he sighed inwardly, placing his hands on the side of the bath and pushing himself out of the water. Droplets splashed to the damp stone. The woman came closer, rubbing her fingertips against the markings on his chest before checking them for any residue. Then she looked him in the eye, almost suspiciously.

“You’re much too young to be an old one. Why do you have these markings?”

“Because I’m a priest,” said Ricky. “The question should be why does everyone here pretend to have them? None of you are priests.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Only priests should have the markings,” he said, as if it was obvious.

“Priests?” She looked positively intrigued now. “Where do you come from?”

“Storm’s Eye,” he replied, before going into more detail, seeing as no one ever seemed to know where his home was. He remembered the map, he remembered Tinsley’s gloved hand pointing it out, tapping it hard, like he would’ve crushed it if he could. He was cruel back then, truly cruel. “An island in the northeast.”

She was quiet for a moment. “The north?”

“Northeast.”

“Yes, yes. I see.”

Ricky turned his head at the sound of moaning, seeing that Dalyn and Haron were now against the far side of baths, locked together, lost in their lovemaking. He wanted the woman to leave so he could join in again, but she didn’t. She followed his gaze before looking back at him.

“They’re together,” she said. “Both in work and outside of it.”

“Oh.” Ricky touched the wooden ring on the leather strip around his neck. “I thought most people frowned on that here.”

“On what? Sleeping with someone outside of your marriage? They do. But not within this city’s walls.” She waved a thin hand; gold gleamed on her wrists and fingers, a delicate chain connecting the rings to the bracelets. “Anything goes around here, new one.”

 _New one._ Why couldn’t he go anywhere without people applying some name to him? Little man, new one, what was next? His name was just Ricky. It wasn’t that hard to say. The woman gestured for him to follow as she moved towards the door, her sandals scratching against the stone.

“I see you made yourself at home,” she said, opening the door for him and letting him through. Maie followed, fetching Ricky a towel and a robe. The robe was, just like every fabric in the building, patterned in the colours of a low sunset. “It’s always promising to see that.”

Ricky shrugged the robe on, leaving it untied as he dried his hair with the towel. “This is the closest thing to home I’ve had since leaving it.”

She walked on ahead as if he hadn’t spoken, and he reluctantly followed, thinking of Haron and Dalyn just a room away. “I am the priestess of this house. Priests and priestesses here don’t do what they do where you come from. We provide pleasure for our customers. I treat my workers with respect, I make sure they’re as comfortable as they can be. A happy worker means a happy customer, and a happy customer means more gold for all of us. Yes?”

Ricky hung the towel around his neck, still looking back at the door. “Yes. That makes sense.”

She saw where he was looking. “They’re good, aren’t they? Esmond trained them here.”

Ricky frowned. “Trained them?”

“Yes. Trained them to please people. Just as you will be trained. Esmond trains the men, and I occasionally train the women. But we cater more towards men who enjoy men, in this house.” She led him back up the stone stairway that gradually became wooden. “Do you want to be as good as Haron and Dalyn?”

Ricky couldn’t stop his light laugh from coming out. “I _am_ as good as them.”

“Are you now?” she said absent-mindedly, already continuing on. She was leading him back towards the room he had been in. “Are you hungry? I could have food brought to you. Everyone else had eaten already.”

Ricky nodded, waiting for her to find the key to his room. “Food would be good. Thank you.”

Once he stepped in, she came in after him and simply pulled his robe down off his arms and away altogether. Ricky looked at her in surprise, and he was about to say that he was complimented but he didn't bed women.

“These are for the baths,” she said, stepping back out into the corridor. “The robes for rooms are on the back of the door. Maie will bring you food in a few minutes.”

Ricky didn’t get to thank her. She closed the door and left. To his relief, he didn’t hear a key turn. He just heard her sandals against the wood floor of the corridor, getting quieter. Then silence. He took a robe from the back of the door; they were thinner than the bath ones. He wondered if anyone would notice if he skipped right back down to the baths and the pleasure that awaited him there. But he had to be honest with himself; he was tired. Tired after a long day of travel, and tired after a long few weeks of tumultuous emotions at the hands of Tinsley.

When Maie arrived, he gratefully demolished every morsel of food on the plate. She had returned with his clothes too, freshly washed, and he got into them for no other reason than familiarity. Then he crawled into the bed and let himself drift into darkness.

* * *

“Word has it that a Councillor was killed in some village in the east.”

“Ridiculous. No one would do such a thing.”

“It’s true! They found her horse roaming wild. No Librarians either.”

The sailor shook his head, counting out his coins into the barman’s hand. “A tale. And a dangerous tale, at that.”

“I’m telling you, it’s true. The Councillor of Swell Creek hasn’t been seen in two days, and she would’ve had jurisdiction over the village where she was killed.”

“There’s all sorts of mad things going on,” said an old woman on the stool beside them. “I heard a tale from the north that a man stopped the sea with his bare hands and destroyed the dam at Snow’s End. What do you make of that?”

“I say that I’ve heard similar tales,” said the sailor, bringing his cup to his mouth. “From the east. Apparently some folk saw the gods of old, in the flesh. Conjured up by some strange man who wore a cloak made of shadows.”

“I won’t have talk of gods here,” muttered the barman, scowling at the far door as if a Councillor could break it down at any moment. “Not worth it.”

Not worth it indeed, thought the Mayor to himself as he drank his ale in slow mouthfuls. The Grand Market was always a place for strange talk, but this strange talk didn’t tend to stick to a theme; the sea, the gods, and a strange man. It was impossible, thought the Mayor. He had left Ricky in Snow’s End. The lad wouldn’t have taken off on his own, would he have? The Mayor wasn’t sure why he was asking himself the question. The answer was clearly yes, Ricky most certainly would take off by himself into the great unknown, and he’d do it with a smile. But surely Tinsley would have prevented him from doing so. Then again, each man was just as unpredictable as the other, especially when held in close quarters. The Mayor wasn’t sure what to make of them; one minute they would be at each other’s throats, and the next they would be having a conversation just for themselves, with eye contact so heavy and intimate the Mayor could never bring himself to interrupt. He had never seen Tinsley act such a way with anyone, this hatred that burned with a passion to rival love, and Ricky’s own determination to fan the flames whenever he had the chance. They were a dangerous duo. The Mayor almost hoped they had separated and left the other alone for good.

“What’s on your mind?”

The Mayor looked over his shoulder at where Manda stood folding a list over on itself again and again. A shopping list, no doubt. Hundreds of the slips of paper had been handed out to the miners like so many to-do lists. The Mayor couldn’t wait to leave. The Grand Market was a hectic place, and neither he nor any of the miners were made to spend such a prolonged amount of time in such surroundings. They were made for the cold solitary scenes of the north. The further south one travelled, the less important people and morals seemed to be, and things like gold, law, and order became all the more important. Many people didn’t even bother returning a smile, or spared you a look of disgust or suspicion instead.

“I’m just thinking that I can’t wait to go home,” said the Mayor, finishing his ale. He left the cup on the counter, and a gold coin beside it. “Any word of that Council delegation going north yet?”

“Yep. Apparently they’re almost at Snow’s End. Got stuck in a few blizzards. Southerners are so stubborn in the face of nature.”

The Mayor nodded. It was true, after all. The closer to Arcania a person went, the more people believed they were above the natural world, above the earth, the sky, the sea. “It isn’t too much to hope that they perished in the snow, is it?”

Manda spared a wry laugh. “Unfortunately not. But it doesn’t matter if they perish. What matters is that when they reach Snow’s End, you-” She poked him in the chest to emphasize her message. “-are not there. The delegation will either try and wait out your return in the cold outside the walls, which they most likely won’t survive, or they turn right around and go back to their miserable lives terrorizing locals.”

They stopped to continue speaking in the doorway of the pub. Once they stepped through it and into the Market itself, there would be no chance at holding a conversation. Farmers and traders would be shouting and calling out their deals, ringing bells and banging pots to garner attention while musicians played at corners for a few coppers and silvers. Wagons and carts would be trundling and rattling back and forth, full going one way, empty going the other. An endless amount of animals would be shrieking and whinnying and mooing and snorting, all of it a brutal symphony of noise.

“Have you heard any stories about the east?” asked the Mayor. “I’ve heard some… worrying things.”

“Me too. And unless there’s another Ricky around, it seems as if he’s left the north.”

The Mayor let out a rumbling sigh. “No word on Tinsley?”

“There was mention of a griffin nearby. And I mean nearby as in near the Market. I don’t think it’s Tinsley though. People would recognize his face.”

The Mayor raised his brows. “Did you get a crown species? Definitely not a heron?”

“No. Smaller, by peoples’ descriptions.” Manda suddenly stepped closer, her voice lowering. “That woman over at the table nearest the kitchen door has been watching us for the past ten minutes. I think she was watching you before I even came in.”

The Mayor turned his head, ignoring Manda’s hissed orders not to look now!, and sure enough a woman with light brown eyes was watching them intently. She wore a deep blue cloak with a hood, which was drawn close around her face. After he looked at her,she stood up and began coming over. She was taller, taller than most people in the room, and thin too. Her steps were purposeful and measured. The Mayor instantly knew where she was from.

“It’s a rider,” he muttered to Manda, who swiftly put two-and-two together herself.

The woman came to a halt close to them, still hiding her coat under her cloak. The Mayor took this as a good sign; the only reason she would be hiding it is because the Council were not on her side.

“My name is Holly Horsley,” she said. Her hand went to her forehead and out to the side. It appeared as a salute, but the Mayor had met enough riders to know that this was how they signed ‘hello’. “I couldn’t help but watch your conversation from across the way. To cut things short, I noticed you mentioned a certain name. I’m looking for the man with that name.”

Manda’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How did you hear us from over there?”

Holly blinked at her, unused to the question. “I can’t hear. I see how your mouth moves. Don’t fret, I can’t make out entire sentences. I can pick up certain words. From you, anyway. Not from him.” She nodded at the Mayor. “Beards are burdensome to my people.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you lived in the north all your life,” jested the Mayor. His beard ensured warmth all year round.

Holly squinted at his face, certain that he had spoken. Manda took it upon herself to repeat the sentence. She wasn’t sure if Holly picked up on the entire quip; the woman just nodded and looked back at her eyes.

“Yes, the north. I had word that the man I’m looking for is there. I can’t say his name, in case I draw attention to myself. It’s dangerous for me to be travelling on the mainland as it is.”

Manda shared a look with the Mayor. “We don’t actually know if he’s still in the north. He was there when we left, but he might not have stayed.”

“He probably didn’t stay,” muttered Holly. “He’s not one for hanging around. Unfortunately for all his enemies and his friends.”

“Why is it dangerous for you to travel?” asked the Mayor.

A look of impatience passed over Holly’s face. The Mayor felt himself redden. He tried to remember what Tinsley had taught him many years beforehand about the language on the Roost, and very hesitantly signed, _Why land bad?_

If Holly was appreciative of his attempt at communication, she didn’t show it. Then again, the Mayor knew perfectly well that riders weren’t ones for hugs and kisses, or emotions in general. In all honesty, Holly believed that people shouldn’t be congratulated for learning her language, as she had never been for learning theirs. “Because I am on the wrong side of my people. And the man I’m looking for left a legacy on my shoulders that marks me in the eyes of the Council.”

The Mayor frowned. _What?_

Holly seemed a bit uncomfortable, her gaze flickering aside before she said, “He left his legacy... in me. In my belly. I got rid of it. He didn’t know. The Council doesn't care that it’s gone. They see me as a threat. They think that what I carried for him once I might one day carry again.”

The Mayor and Manda were staring at her in stunned silence. Then the Mayor hurriedly signed, _Child?_

Holly nodded, her face growing red. Just like all her people, the discussion of sex was highly uncomfortable ground. “Yes. A child.” Then she shook her head. “But the Roost is no place to bring a child into. Such a place does not exist anymore. It’s difficult to justify children right now. We all hope to have good children, who will grow up to do good things, but with the amount of bad in the world today our children will waste away to nothing by the time they’re ten, simply trying to stay good and do good things.” Then she shook her head again and repeated, “I got rid of it. He didn’t know.”

“I thought the Roost was at peace,” said Manda.

“Peace? There’s no peace on the Roost. The Council is lying to you.”

The Mayor rested his hands over his face for a bit of silence. It was too much all at once. He had always known that Tinsley and Holly had been close - Holly was his right-hand woman, she led when he was absent. But he had had no idea they had shared a bed. He cursed Tinsley’s impulsivity. The Mayor looked at Holly again, and mimicked putting a ring on his finger. Holly’s brows shot up; for a person from the Roost, this might as well have been a full laugh.

“Marriage? No. No, it wasn’t like that. We weren’t anything along those lines. No. It was…” She waved her hands. “...in the moment. A late night. I don’t wish to go into more detail.”

The Mayor nodded respectfully. Holly moved on.

“And who is this other person you were speaking of? Unless I’m mistaken, I believe you said another name?”

Manda wasn’t sure how to explain it. “He and Tinsley met in the north. They had a habit of sticking together, even though they were at loggerheads more than not.”

Holly spared a wry smile. “I won’t try and suggest that he was in any way innocent in those encounters. He could be an awful agitator when he wanted to be.”

The Mayor signed, _Why find him?_ The language was coming back to him bit by bit, if a tad slow; he had always marvelled at how swiftly Tinsley’s hands moved as he spoke to another rider.

“I’m looking for him to bring him home,” said Holly. “We need him.”

_He wants home._

Holly closed her eyes, relieved at the message. “Good. Good, I had been a bit worried he might refuse. Did he tell you outright that he wants to come home?”

The Mayor nodded.

“And he stuck around with this other man? Where is this man?”

“East, we think,” said Manda.

Holly nodded. “Then I will go east.”

She swiftly signed _thank you_ , and then she was gone out the door, the hem of her cloak fluttering behind her. The Mayor and Manda exchanged a long look, registering their shared feelings of shock, surprise, and overall astonishment. The Mayor, as if in a trance of sorts, said, “Do you know that when two riders fight, the loser signs ‘thank you’ to the winner, and the winner signs ‘you’re welcome’ in response? It’s meant to show humility at being defeated, and grace at being victorious.”

Manda nodded. “Strange people altogether.”

“Very strange.”

The Mayor eagerly followed her out the door of the pub; he couldn’t wait to go home.

* * *

The woman had returned, drifting around the room in her light, flowy dress. It was a sheer material; if Ricky looked hard enough he could see the shape of her body under the fabric. She carried around a taper candle, lighting the thicker, shorter candles around the room. They were scented; the air swiftly grew heady with nutmeg and sandalwood, vanilla and a sweet undertone of rose. She drew the patterned curtains. Then she turned to face him, still carrying the long taper candle with its solid little flame. It cast a flickering light against one side of her high-cheekboned face.

"Are you a virgin?"

Ricky shook his head. "No."

"How many times have you had someone?"

"I don't know."

She seemed to think that this meant not a lot, when unbeknownst to her, it meant the exact opposite. "When did you first lie with someone?"

"When I was a teenager."

"What age are you now?" she asked, approaching him with the candle out so she could see his face better.

"Twenty-eight."

"No illnesses? No diseases?"

Ricky shook his head, somewhat warily. "No."

"No need to look like that. Some customers prefer to know beforehand. Others don't care. Which is stranger, I think." Her eyes were a little feverish, a little too bright. "How do you handle pain?"

Ricky eyed her as she sat down on the bed beside him. "I handle it fine." He could almost imagine Tinsley's mocking laugh in his head. _You? Fine? Don't be ridiculous, little man._

The woman put out her hand. "Give me your arm."

"Why?"

"It's a test. It's for your own good."

Ricky held out his arm. She rolled up his sleeve to his elbow, turning his arm over, and without warning she dripped a few drops of hot wax from the candle onto the soft skin on the inside of his wrist. Ricky's nose wrinkled, his teeth baring themselves slightly as he hissed in surprise, but he didn't pull away. The woman studied his face for a moment before nodding to herself, seemingly satisfied. She got to her feet.

"You're lucky you're in my house," she said, brushing her thick red hair back off her shoulders, fixing the sheer veil over it. "I'll give you your first night free of customers. But you will learn how to please someone now, in this room."

"I know how to please someone," replied Ricky somewhat icily.

"You will learn how to make them think they're pleasing you," she continued, setting her candle in a copper holder near a bowl of thick, clear oil. She carried this bowl to the bedside table. "Even if they're not. My house attracts more reasonable customers than others do. They won't try to hurt you when they have sex with you."

"Hurt me? What lovemaking involves pain?"

Her face grew a little empty. "You don't come from here, do you."

"No. No, where I come from, I have sex with someone when I want to."

"Well here you'll have sex with someone when _they_ want to." She cupped his face, brushing a thumb against his cheek. "You have a lovely face. You'll be popular." She turned her head aside, calling out a name. "Esmond!"

The door opened, and a man came in, as casually as if he saw this scene twice a day everyday. He seemed about forty, with greying black hair and a stony face. He wore a light robe over his heavyset body. He looked Ricky over, and Ricky recognized him instantly as the man who had touched him at the kitchen door. "You like the new one?"

"So far," she replied, gesturing for Ricky to lie back on the bed. "Treat him nicely, Esmond. If he has any potential, he’ll make us a lot of gold."

Ricky propped himself up on his elbows as the man got between his legs. He was handsome in a savage way, clean-shaven and strong-jawed, with a scar across the bridge of his nose and another down through his left eyebrow. His eyes were an icy, icy blue. Ricky couldn't stop looking at them. If only his lashes were a bit more numerous, a bit feathered. If only he was a bit more slender, a bit taller. The man made quick work of Ricky's trousers, unlacing them swiftly with his rough fingers, ignorant of Ricky's thoughts.

"Don't struggle," he said distractedly as he untucked Ricky's shirt from his trousers. "I'll make you feel good."

Ricky didn't struggle. If anything, he was a bit curious. Esmond took hold of his hips, forcing them flat on the bed like it was nothing. He dragged off Ricky's trousers, throwing them aside. He pulled his underwear off. He took Ricky by the front of his shirt, pulling him forwards so he could tug the shirt off over his head. He tossed it aside too, looking Ricky over appraisingly.

"You have a beautiful body," he said, quiet, as if to himself.

Ricky stared at him, feeling his large hands running up his stomach, thumbs brushing over his skin, before resting over his chest. His hands were large enough to almost cover it completely.

"I won't kiss your mouth," said Esmond, still in a disinterested manner, before leaning in and placing his mouth over Ricky's nipple, sucking it hard.

Ricky's body froze up, his breath caught in his throat. Esmond moved to the other nipple, kissing it and sucking it, brushing his rough tongue over it. Ricky grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling his head away, more out of shock at his boldness than anything else.

"No!" The woman strode forwards, but Esmond had already taken hold of Ricky's wrist and pinned it to the pillow above his head. "You won't do a thing like that to a customer. You let them do to you what they want. For your own safety, if nothing else. Too many complaints and I'll have to send you to a different house."

Ricky raised an eyebrow. The situation was both familiar and alien to him; he had made love many a time with others watching, but the situation had been different on Storm's Eye. It had no ulterior motives then, no gold involved, no acting required. Just mutual gratification and enjoyment. Although he supposed he could manage a mix of them all.

Ricky bit his lip as Esmond leaned back in and started again, his mouth against his chest. It felt good, good enough to make Ricky lie back on the bed, closing his eyes. One of Esmond's large hands moved down between Ricky's legs, rubbing his cock until it was hard. Ricky's mouth fell open as a finger brushed the tip, Esmond's mouth still sucking on his nipple, ensuring that pleasure spread through his entire body as swiftly as possible, from multiple points. Ricky pushed a hand through his hair, biting softly on his bottom lip.

"Good," murmured the woman, standing over them, watching Ricky closely. "A good face."

Esmond sat back, drawing off his robe, revealing a broad, muscular torso, made for heavy farm work, or loading ships at docks. Ricky wondered how he’d ended up in this place. More than that, he was thankful for it. Esmond leaned back in, kissing Ricky's body, kissing it all the way down, open-mouthed, before sliding his mouth over Ricky's cock. He started sucking hard, his tongue pressing against the underside, and Ricky let out a sudden moan, turning his head aside to try and bury his face in the pillow. The woman leaned in, taking a hold of his jaw and turning his head back straight.

"You sound nice,” she said. “They’ll like how you sound. They like to think they’re making you sound the way you do. So you’ll learn to sound convincing, okay?"

Esmond took Ricky in his mouth again, running the tip of his tongue back and forth over the tip of Ricky's cock, holding Ricky's legs apart, a hand clamped on the inside of each thigh. Ricky pressed his head back into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted. He wanted to take over himself, but the man knew what he was doing, and if Ricky opened his mouth he knew only a hard moan would fall out. He pushed his hands down into Esmond's hair, beginning to roll his hips off the bed, pushing into his mouth.

"Yes, good," said the woman with a nod. "You've done all this before. We can move things along here, then."

Esmond leaned aside and slathered his forefinger and middle finger in the bowl of oil on the bedside table. He did it all quite robotically, a workman at his station. He ran his dry hand over Ricky's chest, brushing a thumb over his nipple before placing his mouth on it and starting to suck again. Ricky's body jolted like he'd been shocked by electricity, his hands twisting into the sheets. Esmond's oiled hand moved back down between Ricky's legs, and he eased a finger into him. Ricky's voice broke.

_"Fuck."_

"Oh, he likes that a lot," said the woman, as casually as if commenting on the weather. "Look at him."

"I know," replied Esmond flatly, pushing Ricky's legs further apart with one hand, his other hand working. He spoke over Ricky's whined breaths. "He's expressive. Customers like that. Especially if they believe it."

"Well I'd even believe that. I don't think he's faking."

Esmond's reply was wry. "He's not."

Esmond leaned back in, his body covering Ricky's. For a while he fucked him with his fingers, his mouth moving from one side of Ricky's chest to the other, sucking and licking, and Ricky was moaning freely now, his head pushed back into the pillow and throat bared. Esmond sat back, a hand pressed to Ricky's lower stomach to keep him still as his other hand continued fucking him until Ricky's face was wet with sweat.

"Come along, Esmond," said the woman almost disapprovingly. Sometimes Esmond was too cold, viewing the other person like a puzzle to take apart. "You know our customers expect more of us. Make love to him like you mean it."

Esmond muttered before he forced an arm under Ricky's back, holding him off the bed as he started kissing his lower stomach, tasting the warm wet salt of sweat against his lips. Ricky's head rolled from one side to the other, his dark hair stuck to his face, his mouth open as Esmond worked every sort of sound from his throat. After a few minutes Esmond looked aside at the woman, nodding at Ricky, his thick brows raised as if to say, _what do you think?_ He kept his fingers pushing in and out of Ricky at a steady pace, keeping him essentially unconscious of his surroundings.

"Speak to him," said the woman. "See how he reacts."

"You like how I'm fucking you, don't you, whore," said Esmond in a low, grating voice.

Ricky couldn't reply, not while the man's fingers were inside him, keeping his throat occupied with moans. His back rose off the bed and dropped back down again.

"Whores like you have to get fucked right." Esmond brought his mouth to Ricky’s ear, his voice dropping. "I'm glad I'm the one breaking you in."

He kept his fingers working as he took Ricky's cock in his mouth again, and he kept his hard eyes on Ricky's body to gauge how it reacted; stomach twitching, legs shaking, arms stiff as they pulled at the sheets down by his hips. He had learned a long time ago to read a man's body, to understand it when it was being pleasured, and to exemplify this pleasure as needed. So he exemplified it, bit by bit, kissing the sweetspots on Ricky's body, his own mind remaining coldly analytical as he did so. Ricky hit his head back against the bed, lifting it just to hit it back again, his brows drawn up and together, a long, continuous moaning coming from his mouth, broken only by his panted breaths. Esmond took him in his mouth again, increasing the speed of his fingers simultaneously, and Ricky's body gave a single, sharp convulsion, his breath escaping his lungs in a shaking whimper as his torso twisted aside into the sheets, curving in on itself.

"Very _good,_ Esmond," said the woman, pouring herself a cup of wine. "Keep going. All the way."

Esmond took his fingers out of Ricky, focusing entirely on sucking his cock, his head rising and dipping at a rapid pace. One hand held Ricky's thigh over his shoulder, the other held his other leg aside on the bed, keeping them parted so he could do what he wanted between them. There were two types of whores, he found. The type that people paid to do things to, and the type that people paid to have do things to them. He was the latter. This new one was the former. He had known it instantly, and he was rarely wrong.

His grip slipped on the sweat on the inside of Ricky's thighs, and so he pulled both legs up over his shoulders, hooking his arms around them, his head remaining buried between them. He sucked Ricky's cock messily, and Ricky whined and whimpered in response. His back arched off the bed, and he felt the woman's cool hand on his midriff, simply resting there, fingers brushing in slow circles against his skin, tracing a particularly swirling mark as she studied him.

"He likes that," she said to Esmond, her head inclined, her eyes watching Ricky's flushed face. "Use your fingers again too. He liked that more."

Esmond did so, his head still bobbing between Ricky's legs, and Ricky's shoulders jerked forward off the bed as the base of his stomach knotted fiercely, before they dropped back down, his eyes squeezed shut and mouth open as he panted for air. The woman slid two fingers into his mouth, curious, and to her surprise Ricky closed his lips around them, sucking hard. She raised her brows, wondering exactly what she had done right to get this goldmine delivered to her house out of all the houses in the city. He didn’t need any training at all.

She went away and sat down, crossing her legs. Her eyes were bright as she picked up her cup of wine. "Fuck him properly now."

Esmond straightened up, dropping Ricky's thighs off his shoulders, and he reached aside for the oil, slicking up his own cock. Ricky lay back, deciding that so far, this wasn't bad at all. He looked Esmond in the eye, and Esmond looked back, his brows drawing together slightly. He picked up Ricky's hips, and he slid his cock into him, slowly, watching Ricky's face. He seemed pleased by what he saw; Ricky's eyes rolling back with the pleasure, his lashes fluttering. He fucked Ricky like this for a few minutes, straight up on his knees, pulling Ricky's hips towards him as he drove his own hips forward, the sound of skin striking skin echoed by Ricky's moans.

"Slower," ordered the woman into her wine. "The way that Councillor likes to see."

Esmond moved forwards, laying his body on Ricky’s, placing his mouth on Ricky's neck and biting it as he rolled his hips; slow, deep, thorough thrusts, pushing his cock all the way in, over and over. Ricky's body wrapped around him, fingers digging into his back. Esmond grabbed a fistful of Ricky's wet hair, holding his head back against the pillow to keep his throat bared as he bit it and sucked it. He remained entangled with Ricky as he fucked him hard and slow, their bodies moving together against the damp sheets, skin wet and rough against skin. Ricky could hardly moan anymore; he was breathless, his lids fluttering with the pleasure.

 _" Fuck_ _."_ His head lolled back, his face flushed red. " _Tinsley."_

"No!" The woman's voice snapped at him. "Never say another person's name. Ever! Customers don't like to be reminded that the thing they're fucking is a human with its own life."

If she was heard, neither man made it clear. Esmond ran a hand over Ricky's chest before starting to suck on his nipple again, fixating on the one, his hand sliding down Ricky's side, thumb running over his ribs. He pressed his fingertips into Ricky's side, massaging it softly, moving from the base of his ribs down to his hip bone. Ricky lifted his head to watch the man making love to his entire body in a way he never wanted to end. It was rare a man knew all the places to touch, all the places that stirred pleasure. Esmond's hand slid from Ricky's waist to his lower stomach, rubbing his palm back and forth over it as he fucked him slow. Ricky could see the sheen of sweat on Esmond's smooth back, the rippling of muscle as his hips continued rolling, the man's mouth still on his chest, sucking lightly. Ricky let his head drop back against the pillow, biting down on his bottom lip, blissful.

"Do you like how he's fucking you?" asked the woman, back at the side of the bed. She brushed Ricky's hair back off his sweaty face, almost fondly, her eyes studying him. "Not many customers will fuck you like this. Esmond is good, don’t you think? He grew up in a pleasure-house. He's been learning all his life."

Ricky looked at her with glittering eyes as she sat on the bed beside him. She traced his markings with a fingertip, from his shoulder down to his elbow. She laid a loose hand around his throat, feeling how his breaths stuck and unstuck with his moans. Her hand brushed up to lightly hold his jaw, then over his chin, her fingers softly touching his lips.

"You're the real thing,” she said over his heavy breaths. “Worth real gold."

Ricky's throat worked as if he was trying to reply, but his eyes closed, his legs hooking tighter around Esmond's hips, his mind forgetting how to render a sentence comprehensively. That's what the woman liked about Esmond; he could fuck for hours. He brought in the most gold every night, although he never seemed too delighted by it. Even now he only fucked the new one because he was told to, and the sounds of his pleasure came in no other form than rough, reluctant grunts, as if he didn't want anyone to know that he felt good. The woman observed the two men as they wrapped tighter around each other, Esmond's hips shifting Ricky's body against the bed each time they rolled forward. Ricky hooked an arm around Esmond's neck, his back rising off the sheets, his head pushed back into the pillow, a moan ripping from his throat. The woman inclined her head. She wasn't usually one for testing new produce herself, but the heat in the room, the sound of the men's moans, the sight of them entangled in the height of indulgent pleasure got the better of her. She leaned in and kissed Ricky's throat, kissed him on his open mouth, running a hand through his damp hair, and Ricky kissed her back for no other reason than everything felt good in that moment. He tangled one hand in Esmond's hair down at his chest, and the other hand he slipped around the back of the woman's neck as he kissed her. She broke away, cupping Ricky's jaw, wiping her thumb across his lips.

"If I wasn't working," she murmured when Ricky took her hand and slipped two of her fingers into his mouth, his dark eyes inviting. She got to her feet and said to Esmond, "Enough. Fuck him like a customer would."

Esmond didn't do so immediately; he was beginning to let out low, grunted moans himself each time his hips thrust all the way in. He lowered his hips for a better angle, still pushing in slow, and Ricky cursed breathlessly, hands digging into his lower back. After another minute of this Esmond straightened back up onto his knees, hands gripping Ricky's hips again, and he started fucking him roughly. The bedframe rattled. Ricky's moans pitched up. He wrapped his legs around Esmond's waist, urging him to go faster, trying to reach forwards and grip his waist. Ricky suddenly pulled Esmond's body down against his own, rolling them. He sat back onto Esmond's hips, riding him, keeping the previous pace, the bed complaining below them. Both Esmond and the woman seemed somewhat taken aback, their brows raised in surprise. Ricky braced his hands against Esmond's chest, rolling his hips back and forth, his head hanging, his face hidden by his hair. The woman's mouth fell open; her eyes almost turned into gold coins themselves. He could take _and_ he could give? She was going to be rich, richer than all the rest. An investment indeed. Ricky grabbed hold of the headboard, still riding the man under him with enough roughness that Esmond's hands slid off his hips.

"Don't roll your hips," grunted Esmond, red-faced with exertion. "Go up and down. Rolling is for your own pleasure. That's not important with a customer."

Ricky ignored him, sitting back, running his hands back through his hair as he continued rolling his hips hard and fast. The woman's eyes ran over his body from where she sat by the table. She watched as Esmond fixed an arm around Ricky's waist, maneouvering himself onto his knees, turning to prop Ricky against the headboard so he could fuck him like it was a punishment for ignoring his words. Ricky wrapped himself around his body, face buried in his shoulder, and when he ran his hands over his back he imagined he felt scars all over it.

“Finish it up,” said the woman over the sound of them. She drained the last few drops of her wine. “I’ve seen what I needed to see.”

Esmond started fucking him faster, harder, and Ricky fell back against the headboard, hands gripping the iron of it either side, his head hanging back and his eyes squeezed shut.

"I'm gonna come," he breathed. He felt one of Esmond's large hands against his ribs, pulling him forwards so he could kiss his chest. Ricky's mind was frazzled, scattered, only his body truly aware. Esmond's stubble scratched, his nose pressed into Ricky's skin, a shadow of a memory, and Ricky wrapped himself ever more tightly around Esmond's body. "Fuck- Tinsley- Fuck- I-"

Ricky's body seized up, and he moaned harshly as he finished, going limp in Esmond's arms. It ended as suddenly as it had started. Esmond dropped him back on the bed before standing up, fetching the robe he'd worn coming in. He wiped the back of his forearm over his sweaty face. The woman got to her feet, studying Ricky where he lay panting on the bed.

"Well?" she asked Esmond, lightly touching his arm. "What do you think?"

"I think he fucks like he was born to do it," he replied dourly, tying the robe. "And I think he needs to unlearn some things. He prioritizes his pleasure as much as the other person's. If the customers wanted that they wouldn't come to a whorehouse."

"Are you sure?" She looked at Ricky again, where he was watching her back. "I think he looked marvelous. People would pay to even get a glimpse of what I just saw." She looked at Esmond. "You'll teach him. Or un-teach him, as you see fit."

Esmond just nodded, already moving towards the door.

Ricky propped himself up on an elbow, pushing his hair back off his face. "I don't want to be un-taught, thanks."

Esmond looked at him. "The first thing you'll need to unlearn is back-talk. Customers won't treat you as nicely as I will."

Ricky looked him over; he could see he was still hard, and he almost wanted to call him back into the bed to pick up where they'd left off. "You fuck well. One of the best I've had. You understand that there's more to fucking than just sticking your cock into someone repeatedly."

Esmond raised his brows. "And you think yourself an expert, do you?"

"I do."

The man tilted his head and said, "We'll see."

He left. The woman remained, standing by the bed. Her eyes ran all the way down Ricky's body, lingering between his legs.

"Tell me," she said, "do you bed women?"

Ricky shook his head, sitting up on the side of the bed, hands massaging his back where the iron of the headboard had dug in. "No. Not by themselves."

"Shame." She began to open the curtains, allowing the natural evening light into the room. "Have you ever tried to?"

"No. Only if there was a man there too. They tended to be a husband and wife. I blessed beds frequently."

She stared at him. He thought she was going to question the bed-blessing, but instead she just said, "You've engaged with more than one person at a time?"

Ricky nodded, getting to his feet and stretching languidly, hands linked behind his head. It was strange; this room was the most at home he had felt since leaving Storm's Eye. Perhaps it was the people with similar markings, the smell of sweat and sex, the casualness of it, the sound of the ocean not far away. "Yes. Often."

She went to the door, looking his body over as she did so. Then she smiled. "I'm very glad I've got you here, Goldsworth."

He raised an eyebrow. "Goldsworth?"

"That's what you are, don't you think?" She opened the door. “Customers don’t like it when the whores have proper names. It makes them seem more human. So we have bed names, and you’ll be Goldsworth. Well, as long as you live up to the title.”

She left the room with a light peal of laughter, closing the door behind her. Ricky stood by the bed, looking down at the tangled, damp sheets. He fought through the post-sex drowsiness that was weighing down his limbs, and decided to investigate the rest of the room. He fetched a dark robe from the back of the door, his body complaining with every movement he made. It was the nice type of pain. He hadn't been fucked like that since he came to the mainland. It gave him some slim hope for the place. Not for the first time, he tried to imagine what Tinsley would be like in bed. It was hard to tell; he was quick to use aggression, quick to lash out, but sometimes he was more gentle than he had the right to be.

He stopped by the bookshelf against the far wall. There were a few copies of the ancient text there, but when he pulled one down to read through it, he found it was a hollow cover. All of them were. Ricky frowned. It was all just for decoration, it seemed. He brushed a hand over the false cover, and asked it, "Why am I here?"

Surely it wasn't to live out the rest of his days in a whorehouse. He went to the window, seeing three tall shadows looming over the houses. The towers of the temples were a constant presence, watching the city without sleep. Within the walls of those temples was Nerisei, this so-called high priestess. Ricky looked out over the houses and towards the far horizon, where the sun was lightly brushing the water, a fiery, glowing red. He would meet this Nerisei, and he would inform her that he was the warrior reincarnate. If she didn't fall to her knees instantly, then her faith was broken beyond repair, and Ricky would have to cast her to the gods for judgement.

Maie returned a few minutes later to change the sheets. Ricky watched her from the window, watched her take away the sheets that he had been writhing in pleasure against only thirty minutes beforehand.

"Which room does Esmond stay in?" he asked.

"The second door from the stairs," she replied in her cool voice. "On the left."

"And does he take customers?"

"Sometimes. He mainly runs the house with Lacilia."

Ricky smiled to himself, satisfied. "That's good to know."

After she had left, he remained at the window, watching every bird in the sky. None seemed to be any more than a plain bird. He closed his eyes; he didn't need Tinsley, but he wanted him near. He missed his presence, even when it was a cold one. He missed his voice, the deep warmth of it. He missed the thrill that would shoot up his spine every time Tinsley touched him, the rare times that he did. It was a different thrill than any he had experienced before. He missed the solidity of his body standing near, the elegant way he could move even in spite of his stature, the surprising strength in the way he could pick Ricky bodily off the floor and carry him without breaking a sweat.

Ricky had a fitful night's sleep, tossing and turning in the bed. He dreamed of the evening that had passed, reliving the pleasure, but it wasn't Esmond he was with; it was Tinsley, and it felt so sweet and so good that Ricky awoke in the middle of the night, his sheets damp with sweat and his face damp with tears.

* * *

Tinsley sat for a long while on the bank of a stream. He could see where it met the ocean, he could hear it rippling and flowing smoothly. In his hands he held a coat that wasn't his. He had found himself holding it more often than not over the course of the last few hours. It, and the silver ring he had placed in its pocket for safekeeping. He brushed a thumb over the dark, heavy fabric of the collar. Sometimes, Ricky wore it with the collar up. He looked different with it like that. More intimidating, like a bird puffing up its feathers, like a wolf with its hackles raised. Tinsley wanted to bring it closer than arm's length, he wanted to breathe in the scent of it; the sea on a cool clear day, with the pleasant warmth of a human's body to it. Instead he just made do with picking it up every half hour or so, just to hold it in his hands.

Sky finished taking her drink from the stream, and she came back up the grassy bank towards him with slow, heavy steps. She pulled at the coat with her pointed beak, as if trying to take it away from him. When he refused to give it, she lifted her head way up on her long neck and rustled her feathers, as if to say, _well I tried._ Tinsley sighed wearily, letting his head hang forwards.

"I know," he muttered, looking at the dark fabric of the coat between his gloved hands. "I'm being ridiculous."

Sky watched with her yellow eyes as he flopped flat onto his back, arms out either side, eyes distant.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he whispered.

It was true. He didn't know. Ever since meeting Ricky he didn't know anything. Even his thoughts were beginning to double-check themselves in a voice that wasn't his. Sometimes it was more than one voice. A man's voice, a woman's voice, dozens of them. He had long wondered if his mind had broken on the Roost, in that solitary cell. Perhaps it had cracked a little. Partially fractured. He closed his eyes and sighed again, wearily.

"I know where he's gone," he said to Sky, turning his head aside to look up at her. She dropped her neck all the way back down to listen. "They've brought him to the Temples. Of course they have. I shouldn't have lit that fire. There were probably hundreds of them lurking around, waiting to pounce. Especially with Ricky’s stupid markings. But I thought Ricky would be fine if I stayed with him. I should've stopped him from walking off. It's my fault."

Sky blinked once, waiting for more. Tinsley swallowed hard.

"I don't want to have to go back there." He looked at the faraway sky again. "I said I'd never go back." Then he laughed dryly. “I’m sure Ricky will make himself _very_ at home.” Then his laugh vanished. He realized he didn’t like the thought of that at all. He sat upright. “We have to keep moving.”

He helped himself to some cheese and a few slices of pork from Ricky’s saddlebag that he’d commandeered before climbing back into Sky’s saddle. He placed his goggles over his eyes, pulled the neck of his underjumper over his nose. The sky was an icy, icy cold place if you went up far enough, which he had to do if he wanted to travel on Sky undetected by any nosey townsfolk below.

He found himself suddenly very agitated altogether. The idea of Ricky with someone else made his throat feel constricted. The Temples were still a few hour’s flight away, and the sun was beginning to set. And even when he got there, there would be the whole adventure of trying to locate Ricky among all the unfortunate souls. He mentally cursed Ricky, cursed him for arriving into his life like a taunting reminder of his past, and cursed him for now quite literally leading him back into this past. And only for Ricky was he willing to return. This realization flared inside him, a strangely pleasant sensation.

He gave Sky a pat on the side of her neck, and she bounded forwards before taking off into the air with a strong flap of solid wings. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there kinda will be copious amounts of nsfw in the next few chapters actually, and just kinda nudity and stuff (HBO would love me) just because i wanna get across that the Temples is a very sleazy place. so yeehaw


	19. Gods' Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Evil is unspectacular and always human, And shares our bed and eats at our own table."_ \- W.H. Auden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of a quick ricky-tinsley centric chapter!
> 
> just for name pronunciations, Seia is Say-ah and Nerisei is Ner-ee-see :)  
> also I'd pronounce Maie as just 'May'  
> also, the amount of esmond sex is actually gonna be pretty relevant in ricky and tinsley's relationship, which is why i include it pretty often lmao

Tinsley dismounted a walkable distance from the Temples. It wouldn’t do for Sky to be spotted, and more than that, it wouldn’t do for him to be spotted. The Overseer for the Temples, a Councillor Seia, was relatively capable of whipping the city into shape when needed. Tinsley wasn’t going to give her such a need.

With hesitant hands, he removed his coat and jumper before fetching the loose cotton shirt he slept in and pulling that on instead. He rolled the sleeves up to his elbows and tucked the loose hem into the waist of his trousers. Then he picked up Ricky’s coat, holding it by the shoulders. It was made of a heavy, sea-faring material, the same dark colour one could find in the deepest waters of the sea. It had always been a tad too big for Ricky; the shoulders were too wide, the sleeves grazed his palms. All in all, it was not an item of clothing Tinsley would have chosen to wear, but he knew it would help him once inside the city; it would help him blend in, and it might help Ricky spot him too.

Tinsley looked to the skies with exasperation at where his life had led him, before slipping Ricky’s coat on. It fit him well, better than it fit Ricky (although Ricky had a way of making it look good despite its size, with a toss of his dark hair and a wink and a smile). The bottom of the coat ended halfway down Tinsley’s calves, while on Ricky it swept the ground like a cloak. Yes, Ricky sure had a way of making all his mistakes somewhat enviable. Tinsley wondered when he began to find Ricky’s style of dress pleasing.

He turned the collar up on the coat and tied the laces at the top of his shirt just a bit tighter. His neck and collarbones felt strangely bare without his all-encompassing jumper, but he had to remember that although he felt entirely indecent, no one else would blink an eye at his appearance. In fact, he would garner more attention if he walked in completely covered. Tinsley turned to Sky before spreading his arms.

“Well? Thoughts?”

She nudged his rider’s coat where it lay folded on the grass, and looked back at him. Tinsley tutted.

“Right. Thanks.”

He picked up his coat and jumper, bundling them into the saddlebag he had attached to Sky. His gloves went in too. He would’ve preferred to have kept them on - especially considering where he was going - but he knew they were too tell-tale, too well-made to be anything other than the gloves of a rider. His rapier, pistol, and musket joined his coat, jumper, and gloves, but he kept his dagger on his hip. He kept Ricky’s ceremonial knife on the other hip - he wouldn’t stretch to call it a dagger.

Then he looked down at himself, his arms out in front of him. He wiggled his bare fingers in the warm air. All in all, he didn’t believe he looked like a rider anymore.

But there was more than looks that gave a rider away. Their attitude, their physique, the way they held themselves were all indicators of his home. He hated to admit it, but what Ricky had said was true; he _did_ walk around like he had a stick up his ass. It wasn’t his fault, though. He could still remember the stinging whip from the flat of a rapier whenever he slouched as a teenager. They were trained from the get-go to stand up straight, to hold themselves proudly.

“Ricky wouldn’t understand anything about posture,” muttered Tinsley, searching for the buttons on his new coat before realizing there were none. “He’s probably spent most of his life facedown on a bed.”

He felt a little bad after saying this, despite the fact that it was only he and Sky around to hear it.

Tinsley stretched himself out for a moment, walking in a brief circle, before settling in to try and mimic the casual stance of Ricky. He let his shoulders relax. He rested his weight on one leg, his hip to the side, as if he knew he was about to melt into the ground at any second and couldn't quite bring himself to care. He considered trying to disguise his stern face by copying Ricky’s, but found that he couldn’t quite manage it. Ricky had a permanent salacity to his eyes, a constant suggestive smirk on his lips, like he knew full well that no matter where he went and what he did, things would work out for him. Tinsley had no such experience with life. He made do with keeping Ricky’s coat collar high and his face somewhat hidden.

“You stay close, alright?” he said to Sky, giving her a heavy pat on the flank. “I promise I’ll come back this time.”

She fixed him with one disapproving yellow eye. She remembered all too well Tinsley vanishing into this city and not returning for half a month. But she also remembered how he had been entirely lost back then, entirely alone, drinking heavily day and night to try and numb the pain from his still-bleeding back. At least now there was a glimmer of purpose in his eye. She hadn’t seen that glimmer in a long while. So although she had long questioned the man from the sea’s intentions, she allowed Tinsley to give her a pat on the flank, and leave.

There had never been an orderly line into the Temples. It wasn’t like the other cities, where there were guards to keep people in check and a scribe to keep note of sellers who came and went. This was a free-for-all, a muddy churning mass of people, the vast majority of whom were drunk beyond their senses. These gates were placed sporadically along the wooden city walls. A gate further down, nearer to the sea, was reserved for the wealthy and the Councillors, who tended to be one and the same. There was another somewhat quieter gate through which people were brought - people who would never again leave. Tinsley assumed Ricky would have been brought through that gate, but he couldn’t go through it himself; all that would do was make Tinsley seem strange. So he made do with going through the crowd, ignoring the ones who snapped at him and aiming a swift elbow at those who tried to touch him. The pressure right between the gates was hellish. Tinsley wanted to clear a space around himself, regardless of any casualties he might cause. Then there was the sudden release as the crowd got through. Tinsley broke away instantly, feeling disgusting all over.

He kept his head ducked and his stance as lax as he could manage. No one had recognized him the last time, apart from the occasional whore who had managed to get his shirt off and saw his scars. But then again, he trusted the whores much more than he trusted the priests and priestesses.

The noise, the raucous calls and undignifying whistles were all extremely unwelcome to Tinsley. He had no idea how he had managed to stay in such a place for longer than ten minutes, let alone a fortnight. More than that, he had bedded an unknown amount of people, and he couldn’t recall a single face. Only their blue-marked bodies. When he tried to picture their faces now, all he saw was Ricky’s. He forced his mind back to the present, watching out for anyone with dark curly hair, listening out for anyone with a loud, bragging voice. Tinsley hoped he wouldn’t find him down some mud-strewn alley with various knife wounds, but at the same time he knew this was unlikely. Because while Ricky’s markings had endangered him outside the Temples, they provided somewhat of a salvation now that he was in the city. The high priestess would probably want to see him, if she managed to stop acting like a madwoman for long enough. Hmm. Perhaps her and Ricky would be the best of friends by now.

Tinsley’s head snapped up at a particularly head-splitting whistle, and he glared at the bare-breasted woman hanging from her window above. She waved her arms and called out, “Up here, handsome! I can put a smile on that face!”

A shriek of laughter came from the room behind her. Tinsley, red-faced, pulled Ricky’s coat closed across himself before hurrying on.

He stuck to the sides of the buildings, where the ground was firmer. The centre of the streets were naught but mud, and for some particularly intoxicated folks, a bed. Tinsley hated the idea that he had been in these same streets, in these houses. He hated it even more that he could hardly remember a single thing but the taste of ale and wine and smoke, cloying in his mouth. Even now he couldn’t raise his eyes from the ground. The shame was overwhelming, it scalded his face. He was certain that every mocking word he heard, every harsh laugh, was aimed at him. He brought the collar of Ricky’s coat close around his face, and the scent of it reached his nose. He breathed it in, recalling a few particularly spiteful words that had come from Ricky’s mouth: _Acting as if you have the weight of the whole world on your shoulders. You don’t, you know. You’re not half as important as you think you are._ Oddly enough, he now found some comfort in them. He almost regretted beating the shit out of Ricky afterwards. Almost.

But for now, he risked lifting his gaze from the ground and found that no one was looking at him, despite what he had convinced himself. The only people looking were some of the whores, their glances sweeping, evaluating. Tinsley looked back at them with hard eyes before changing his mind and approaching. As he had already remembered, the whores were more trustworthy than anyone else in the city. The two women shared an eager glance as he stopped by the doorway, tilting their heads to look up at his face, waiting.

“I’m looking for someone,” he announced over the general squalor behind him.

“Aren’t we all,” said the first woman dryly.

“There’s all sorts of someones here,” said the second. “Come in and take your pick. Or do you want me to be your someone?”

“I don’t mean like that,” said Tinsley impatiently. “I mean that someone I know is around here and I’m trying to find him.”

“What do you expect us to do?” she said, more coldly now that she realized he wasn’t going to be handing over gold anytime soon. She was already scanning the crowd again.

“Just- Just tell me if he sounds familiar.” Tinsley held his hand flat just below his shoulder. “About this height. Curly black hair and black eyes and thick black eyebrows.” He placed a finger above each of his eyes to emphasize their thickness.”The eyebrows are the only masculine feature he has. His eyelashes are like a woman’s, and his lips too. And he-” Tinsley gritted his teeth, looking aside for a moment, his hands on his hips. Then he looked back and said, “What I’m trying to get across is that he’s- he’s a good-looking person. You’d notice him if you saw him.”

“Sweetie, I wish I saw him, but look around you.” She raised her brows. “Do _you_ see any good-looking people?”

“I’m serious,” said Tinsley sharply, making both women stare at him warily. “He was taken. From me. We were traveling together and he was taken and I want him back.”

“We get it,” said the first woman. “You miss your pretty little boyfriend. But we don’t have him. So get lost before I call over a guard.”

Tinsley scowled at them, but he moved on. If he still had his rider’s coat on, they wouldn’t have spoken to him like that. He stopped around the corner, out of sight, and wondered exactly how much he relied on his appearance in order to command the respect of people around him. He looked down at himself again. How did Ricky command any respect at all in such clothing? Well, he supposed he didn't. Ricky didn't rely on respect to get through his days. He relied on people liking him, and an inexplicable amount of people somehow did. Tinsley sighed wearily, raking his hands back through his hair before continuing on deeper into the city.

* * *

Ricky’s back arched off the bed, his hands twisting into the sheets, but Esmond didn’t slow. He only stopped when Ricky’s body began trembling, and he waited impatiently as Ricky’s hips jerked upwards, his legs shaking, his breaths trapped in his throat. Ricky had hardly relaxed when Esmond started up again, his hands holding Ricky’s waist as he fucked him without pause. He could already see another wave of violent pleasure building in Ricky’s body, he could hear it in his broken moans. Again, he didn’t slow until Ricky was arching off the bed, his body trembling as if about to shatter. He could feel Ricky’s legs trying to close, he could hear the exhaustion in his panted breaths. Esmond pushed his legs apart again.

“I told you you’d regret coming in here,” he muttered, leaning forwards over Ricky as he started driving his hips into him again.

Ricky couldn’t reply. He was already shaking again, his moans swiftly becoming whimpers, his hips bucking. Esmond kept a hold of them, fingers digging in. He fucked Ricky through one last orgasm, holding him steady by the hips as his body shook, before taking a break, getting off the bed to fetch a cup of wine. Ricky rolled onto his side, struggling to catch his breath. He ached all over.

“Where did you _learn_ that?” he managed to ask, forcing himself up on a weak elbow.

“Learn what.”

“How to fuck like that.” Ricky wiped a hand across his mouth; he could taste sweat on his lips. “Did you teach everyone in this house?”

“A few.” Esmond sat on the bed beside Ricky. He flippantly pushed his legs apart and slipped a hand between them, his other hand holding his cup of wine. “I learned because I was taught.”

Ricky’s eyes fluttered closed as Esmond's hand began working slowly. “Gods, you- You have to teach me some things.” He rested his head back against the bed with a satisfied _mm_. “Lots of things.”

“I don’t have time. Tonight I was meant to be keeping the books.” Esmond watched Ricky’s face, chasing every flicker of pleasure, touching him until his back was arching off the sheets. “But you’re very persuasive, I’ll give you that.”

He stood up, and Ricky melted back against the bed, letting out a harsh breath. He turned his head to watch Esmond fetch a robe and shrug it on. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. But you’re going back to your room.”

Ricky sighed heavily, not moving. “I like it in here.”

“It’s almost evening. Lacilia will be annoyed if I’ve worn you out before your first night working.”

Ricky laughed. “I’m not worn out.”

“No?”

Ricky smiled at him. “No.”

Esmond moved to stand beside the bed. He traced a finger across Ricky’s lips, watching how they parted for him. “You’re going to get me in a lot of trouble.”

Ricky went quiet as he remembered a similar sentence spoken to him not too long ago. Tinsley’s voice, furious, _you are ruining everything for me._ Ricky turned his head aside, suddenly disinterested in Esmond’s touch. He sat upright, finding his robe on the ground near the door, where he had let it fall away upon entering (under the pretense that he had lost his way to his own room). Ricky went to the door.

“Leaving?” said Esmond, where he was now readying a quill and ink on his desk. A thick ledger lay open there. “Guilt changed your mind?”

“Guilt?”

Esmond tapped his own neck. “You wear a marriage ring.”

Ricky lightly touched the wooden ring that hung around his neck. “Oh. Yes. No, not guilt about this. Where I come from, it’s common to sleep with another outside your marriage bed.”

“So if it's not guilt, what is it? You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

Ricky shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s someone... He doesn’t want me. But he does. He just says he doesn’t.”

Esmond nodded, somewhat wisely. “The worst kind of person.”

 _“Yes,”_ said Ricky, with the relief of finding someone who finally understands. “Yes, the very worst.”

“Is it this Tinsley that you say when we lie together?”

Ricky looked at him, somewhat taken aback. “...Do I say his name?”

“More often than not.”

“Oh. I’m... sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Esmond sat at his desk, suddenly appearing quite scholarly altogether. “I have work to do now. You can go.”

Ricky did go. He went down to the baths, mapping out the way from memory. He wanted to sit in water for a while. It was the only thing that truly made him feel at ease.

Maie was there too, tidying things on the table by the wall, refilling the soaps and scents. She seemed surprised to see Ricky.

"It's near night," she said. "You're due to start working soon."

"I know."

She didn't ask any questions. She was quite content to stay within herself, Ricky noticed. She drifted from room to room, keeping everything in order, and did so in relative silence. Ricky took off his clothes and slipped into the water. The feeling of it against his skin relieved him instantly. He watched Maie carefully filling a glass bottle with a warm purple liquid. She had a gentle touch. Ricky was lucky it had been her who had pierced his ear; she had poked the needle through his skin in one sure jab, holding a cloth underneath to catch the small amount of blood, cleaning the wound with some stinging akevitt before slipping the hoop through with its white stone. He hadn't been given a choice as to whether or not he wanted the earring, but he wasn't sure if he would've objected. He imagined returning to Storm's Eye in the future, with his golden earring and his silver ring, and all the questions that people would flood him with. So he had allowed Maie and her gentle hands to work away.

"What do you do here?" he asked. "Do you receive the customers too?"

She shook her head, placing the glass stopper back into the bottle. "No. I don't feel sexual attraction to other people." She gave him a rare smile. "It would be an unpleasant experience for everyone involved, I think. I'm lucky I'm in a house like this. Some houses don't care what you want."

Ricky got an unpleasant prickling sensation on the back of his neck. "What do people mean when they say things like that? Do they mean that... Even if you don't want to sleep with someone, you have to?"

Maie nodded.

Ricky shook his head. "That's not right. That's _condemned_ in the texts. This place isn't holy at all. It's- It's insulting."

"I know," she said. "Lacilia is far from the worst priestess."

He folded his arms on the side of the bath, looking up at her. "If you don't like sex, does it not make you uncomfortable to work in a place like this?"

"No. Sex doesn't repulse me. It's just something I have no interest in." She turned to him, wiping a bowl clean with a cloth. "Sometimes Lacilia jokes that I must have parentage from the Roost."

Ricky rolled his eyes. "Oh, people from the Roost have desires. They just hate themselves for it."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because I traveled with a rider. For the last few weeks, I traveled with him."

"How strange. I believed they were somewhat reclusive as a people."

"They are. Sometimes it was like talking to a stone. But sometimes he could be funny. Friendly, even. Sometimes."

"Their home is meant to be beautiful," said Maie. "One of the most beautiful places to visit. Their summers are glorious, and they have all sorts of sweet fruits. Honey too. And spices. And apparently their buildings are magnificent, especially in the capital. Greatsky sits on its own island. An entire city on an island! I don't know why they'd ever want to leave."

"Well, they were at war not too long ago, right?"

"Yes. But I've heard it's over now. The Silverbird was killed. He was captured by the Blackbird's forces and shot dead with his own pistol."

Ricky felt a strange jolt in his chest at the casual mention of Tinsley, of his supposed demise. It always surprised him when he remembered that Tinsley was known throughout the land for what he had done, that people discussed him in conversations, that some believed him dead and buried. "What's the Blackbird?"

"The Blackbird is a who, not a what. Ventis Kenefick. He rules now." She raised her eyebrows. "I've heard some rumours that he's declared himself king."

"I thought the Roost didn't have kings?"

"They didn't. Until now."

Ricky wondered what Tinsley would think of that. "Have you ever been?"

"No. The Roost doesn't welcome visitors. Especially not casual ones, like me." She shrugged. "They might receive foreign delegations, perhaps from the other cities, like Arcania and Gravehearth. But they don't enjoy sightseers."

"Huh. They really do see themselves as above everyone else, don't they."

She smiled. "Seems so." She turned away, back to the table, picking up towels and beginning to fold them. "I think you should go back to your room. Lacilia will want to get you ready."

Ricky did so, drying himself and getting back into his clothes. When he returned to his room, Lacilia was already preparing her things. She glanced at him.

"Oh, good. There you are. Sit down on the bed."

He sat down. Lacilia sat beside him. She unscrewed the small pot she held in her hands. Inside was a shimmering gold liquid. 

“You’ll serve your first customer tonight,” she said, touching the flat of her thumb to the gold, coating the skin there. She lightly brushed it over Ricky’s eyelids. It was cold. He felt some of it catch in his brows. Lacilia smoothed it out either side until the paint brushed his temples. “Are you nervous?”

Ricky shook his head, watching as she placed the pot of gold paint aside and instead fetched a small vial of purple-hued liquid. When she opened the stopper, the scent of jasmine floated out.

“Look at me,” she said, not unkindly.

She dabbed the scent either side of his throat where his pulse was strongest, and behind each of his ears, pushing aside his hair. Her touch was cool. She swiped some of it over the insides of his wrists too; it left a sheen like oil on his skin. Lastly, she reached down and slipped her hand under his robe to rub some on the inside of each of his thighs. He looked at her, and she smiled.

“Beautiful,” she murmured, before getting to her feet and gathering up the few things she’d brought in. “Your first customer will be Councillor Kigrid. He’s a very important man. You will do as he asks.”

Ricky’s eyes followed her towards the door. “And what will he ask?”

Lacilia just looked at him. “You will do as he asks. But if there’s any trouble, just call out. Someone will hear you.”

Then she left. Ricky remained seated on the side of the bed. He touched one of his eyelids, but no liquid came away; it had dried on his skin. He rose to his feet to observe himself in the mirror, an impulse he could never quite deny himself. The mirrors on the mainland were large and plenty; they hadn’t had such mirrors on Storm’s Eye. He usually just saw himself in the reflection of the sea, and he was always quite happy with what he saw.

But now that he looked at himself in this mirror, in this clothing, he felt he looked… different. The rings on his hands gleamed, the hoop and white stone in his ear shone, just visible through his hair. The paint on his eyelids looked quite well with his dark eyes. He studied himself from all angles, letting the robe slip off one shoulder. He wondered if Tinsley would prefer him like this. Tinsley seemed relatively fond of gold; it decorated his coat, it made up the handle of his oh-so-precious rapier. Tinsley didn’t wear jewelry, but then again he didn’t have anywhere to put it. His hands and neck remained covered at all times. Perhaps Tinsley preferred people who dressed like this, instead of the plain dark way Ricky usually dressed. But no. No, he wasn’t going to change himself for Tinsley. Tinsley had refused him, more than once, and Ricky wasn’t going to crawl on his knees to get his approval. He had never had to do so before, and he wasn’t going to start now.

Ricky moved to the window, looking out at all the candles glowing in all the houses. The stars above were bright and plenty. He was glad he had a view of the sea. He could stare at it all day, from its brightest blue at midday to its pitch blackness at night.

The door opened. A man stepped in and closed the door behind him. He wore a citrine-coloured cloak. They all seemed to wear cloaks the colour of jewels, made of the richest velvet. The man undid his cloak and laid it aside on a chair. He gestured at Ricky to come forwards.

“Let me see you.”

Ricky arched an eyebrow at the flippant words, but he did as he was told. He stood a few metres away from the Councillor, who gave him an impatient look.

“I said let me _see_ you.”

Ricky let out a sharp breath. He didn’t appreciate being spoken to like so. But he undid the robe and let it fall away. It crumpled quite smoothly against the wood floor. The Councillor’s eyes brightened. Ricky let him come closer and start to touch him, but his mind wandered, his brows drawing together in thought. He hadn’t expected a Councillor. From what he understood, the Council despised his religion. It didn’t make sense that they came to this place in order to derive pleasure. He spoke with open curiosity.

“Why did your Council try to wipe out my religion but now you come here to bed us?”

The Councillor went still. Then he drew back, looking just a little speechless. “What did you say?”

“I’m just confused,” said Ricky. “It doesn’t make sense to me. How many of us did you kill? How many have you bedded since? Why do you kill some and bed the rest?”

The Councillor’s face was blank with shock. “Who-” He recovered somewhat, his face hardening. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

Ricky waved a hand at the room. “Well who else is here?” He inclined his head, an eyebrow raised. “But be careful of your answer. The gods aren’t that far away.”

“The gods do not exist,” came the icy response. “No one in this city is truly religious. So be silent. I didn’t request an act.”

Ricky frowned as the man grabbed him by the throat. He took hold of his wrist. “Let go of me.”

A mocking laugh, with just a hint of disbelief to it. “What kind of whore are you? Has Lacilia lost her touch?”

“I don’t want to lay with you,” said Ricky, making up his mind quite promptly. He pulled at the hand around his neck. “Get off.”

“Is this some sort of joke?” He continued forcing Ricky back towards the bed. “Because I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

Ricky’s anger flared, and he struck him across the face, shoving him away hard. He fetched his robe, pulling it back on hurriedly. The Councillor was entirely still, holding the reddened side of his face in astonishment, his wide eyes stuck to Ricky. Then he suddenly turned away and left, grabbing his cloak as he went. The door slammed shut behind him. Ricky rubbed at his throat where the man’s fingers had dug in. He did not make a habit of sleeping with people he wasn’t attracted to. He didn’t think that was too big of a requirement. However, Lacilia thought differently. A few minutes after the Councillor had left she came into the room like a glittering tempest, and Esmond was close behind, his quill still in hand. She demanded Ricky explain what had happened, and so he did, quite matter-of-factly.

“You _struck_ him?!” She clamped a hand over her mouth, her face taut with panic. “You- You preached about the gods and you _struck_ him! I’ve never- I’ve never in all my life had a worker of mine act like this!”

“He wanted to lie with me and I didn’t want him to,” said Ricky. “What did you expect?”

“I expected you to lie with him!”

“He’s gone to inform Nerisei,” said Esmond, clearly unimpressed by what had unfolded. “You had a short stint, Goldsworth. Pity. With your potential.”

Ricky lifted his chin at this. “I don’t waste my potential on men who killed my people.”

Esmond scoffed. “You’re not serious about that, are you?”

“I’ve always been serious about it. Did you all think I was playacting?”

Lacilia groaned, collapsing onto the nearest chaise lounge, a hand over her eyes. “I’m ruined. It’s all over.” She slid halfway off the chair so her head was on the seat of it. “I’m passing from this life… I can feel it…” She extended a hand aside. “Esmond, hold me.”

He obediently took hold of her hand, still glowering at Ricky. “You’ll be dead before the sun has risen. You’d best start running.”

Ricky turned away, only going further into the room. “I won’t be running anywhere. If this Nerisei wishes to meet me, then she shall.”

“She doesn’t wish to meet you. She wishes to kill you.”

“I’m protected,” he replied, pulling on his trousers and fetching his boots. “By the gods.”

“The gods are not real!” said Esmond harshly. “You have a pretty face, Goldsworth, but there is not a single thing inside your head.”

Ricky just smiled, leveling his gaze at him. “You’ll believe soon.”

The guards came quite swiftly to retrieve him. They locked heavy shackles around his wrists and escorted him from the house. Dalyn and Haron watched him go past in shock. Maie dropped the sheets she was bringing from the laundry room, her mouth falling open. All along the corridor, all along the street, heads appeared in windows, people leaned out of doorways, eyes wide and shocked, some amused, some disbelieving, at this man being taken away by four city guards. Ricky looked up at the three towering temples growing ever closer, and smiled.

* * *

It was near midnight now, and Tinsley had decided to give up on his search until it was bright again. The only thing that lit the Temples at night were a few pathetic braziers. It was a pickpocket's haven.

He stopped in a relatively clean house, going to the priestess there to get a room for the night. He refused the offer of a 'companion', as she put it. He paid for the room and hurried upstairs, avoiding the eyes of the people around him. He didn't get undressed to sleep, just removed Ricky's coat and hung it on the back of the door. He lay on the sheets, on his back, staring at the ceiling. Sleep didn't come.

He tossed and turned in the dark. The sound of people outside in the street was still loud. The Temples never slowed. He lay on his side, tucked in on himself, his eyes open, brows drawn up and together in a worried expression. From the rooms nearby he could hear sounds of creaking beds and moaning, whether sincere or insincere, he didn't think about it. He picked up his pillow and clamped it over his head. The noises hardly quietened. Tinsley hated them. He hated how they had his blood coursing through his body faster and faster. He wished he had something to do, something to distract himself from the heat between his legs. There was nothing in the room, not even a book. Tinsley curled up more tightly on the bed, a hand still holding the pillow over his head. It had been a long while since he had given in and touched himself. The last time had been in Snow's End, after that breakfast when Ricky had swanned downstairs in nothing but a robe, and had cast Tinsley glance after coy glance. Tinsley had left the table, stormed upstairs, and once in his room found himself incapable of staying still. He had pleasured himself to the thought of Ricky, struggling to keep quiet, biting on his hand. His hatred for Ricky had increased tenfold. The memory of it was shameful. He rolled onto his front, still holding the pillow over his head. His face was hot underneath it. Even after the weeks that had passed, thinking too much of Ricky made him lustful, despite the voice in his head telling him not to give in, that it would only lead to trouble.

More moaning voices started up, sounding as if they were coming right from the other side of the wall. Tinsley squeezed his eyes shut. The scent of Ricky from his coat filled his head. It was all overwhelming. The heat between his legs was throbbing; he couldn't ignore it and stay sane.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he began grinding his hips against the bed, fabric rustling against fabric. He tried not to think of Ricky, but the more he tried not to, the more he did. He started grinding his hips harder, gritting his teeth to contain his moans, one hand pushing out from under the pillow to grip the side of the mattress, twisting it. He suddenly took the pillow from his head, clamping it between his legs instead, burying his face in the sheets as he rubbed himself against it. His voice rose; he forced himself back into silence. His head was filled with memories of Ricky, of his voice, his touch, his lips, the cool seawater swirling around them. He rolled onto his back, still holding the pillow between his legs, his rolling hips rising off the bed, his head pushed back into the sheets.

"Fuck." The words were trembling, bordering on tearful. "Fuck me."

He hurriedly pushed a hand into his trousers, and once again he found himself biting down on his free hand to stay quiet while thoughts of Ricky plagued him. He turned onto his side, squirming against the sheets, his face growing damp with the heat. He had always hated himself in moments like these, hated the sound of his voice. It sounded weak and desperate. He believed that if he could control his voice, control the sounds of his pleasure, then it wasn’t as shameful. It showed he still had some command over himself, in some minor way. He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to stay silent, his body writhing as he worked himself towards completion. He moaned into the sheets, muffled.

 _“Fuck._ Oh fuck.” 

He buried his face in his elbow, furious with himself, furious with Ricky for causing him to be like this. The anger didn’t quell his lust; instead, it encouraged his blood to run faster. When he finished he bit down hard on his forearm, his breaths shaking, his skin hot all over. He let the relief swell through him for only a moment before the shame set in. He sat on the side of his bed, wiping his face dry with the bottom of his shirt. His breaths were still heavy. Somehow, Ricky was still on his mind. He wished he could reach into his head and tear his thoughts to shreds, scatter them out the window, let the breeze take them far away. He buried his face in his hands, stewing in the silence. Silence? He lifted his head. The moaning from the adjoining rooms had stopped. Instead, all he heard were hurried footsteps passing by the door, and excited voices from outside the window.

He went to the window, pushing it open, and saw that the vast majority of the crowd were swarming in the same direction. He caught a passersby's eye, calling down, "What's happening?"

"Apparently some whore attacked a Councillor!" she called back, already being pulled onward by her friends. "He's being brought to the high priestess right now!"

Tinsley didn't need to think twice. He should've known that all he had to do was sit around and wait for Ricky to cause some ruckus or other. He didn't waste time on the stairs; he just fetched Ricky's coat and slipped out the window, dropping to the ground. A few people gasped in shock as he landed in front of them, as if he had appeared from midair. Shrugging the coat on, he followed the crowd, keeping his head up so he could see ahead over the quickly-growing sea of people. As he went further into the city, the houses grew nicer, their paint fresher, more well-kempt. This was the wealthy side, closer to the temples themselves. He began shoving through the crowd, ignoring their curses; he couldn't miss Ricky. He had to let him know he was here.

The crowd stopped moving. Tinsley struggled to see ahead, to see Ricky being brought past. He could see the spears of four guards. Tinsley gritted his teeth, and he turned to the house beside him, grabbing onto the gutter and beginning to climb up to the small wooden balcony above. The people who stood there backed away as he clambered into the space, but he didn't stop to chat. He maneuvered his way from house to house, a relatively simple task due to the fact that they were packed closely together. He could see the guards now, in their dull brown leather armour. More than that, he could see him. He could see his dark curly hair, his back. There was no mistaking the accursed braggadocio of his walk, lax and uncaring. Tinsley reached the balcony closest to the path being made for Ricky, skidding to a halt at the edge of it, hands gripping the white wooden railing. Ricky caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. His head whipped around and up, and his eyes widened somewhat at the sight of Tinsley, near-unrecognizable without his usual personalia; no coat, no gloves, no goggles and no weaponry. In fact, he looked strangely... normal. He was glaring at Ricky, as if to say, _you couldn't just stay out of trouble for one day?,_ and Ricky stuck his nose in the air with a toss of his curls as if to say, _everything is going to plan, actually._ Tinsley could've reached down and killed him himself. But Ricky passed by, glittering from head to toe in gold, with a wispy robe around his shoulders, like he was part of a royal escort, and not on his way to meet his fate.

Tinsley watched him being brought into the middle of the three temples. He stood for a while, wondering what to do next. It was highly likely that Ricky wouldn't be coming out of the doors he had just gone in through. Striking a Councillor was punishable by death. Tinsley took a deep breath, before descending back to the ground. The crowd had begun to disperse. He didn't move to leave. He had to get into the Temples, and soon. So when the guards came up to him, placing him under arrest, he allowed them to take him. It was a surefire way to get inside the building.

"Why are you arresting me?" he asked, somewhat disinterested.

"We have reason to believe you're a rider," said one of the guards. "You were seen jumping from windows and climbing up buildings. You know, not normal people activities. Seia will want to see you, and decide if you are a danger to the city."

Tinsley raised his brows. "...Alright."

* * *

Once inside the temple, the sounds from outside vanished. Only the soft roaring of the sea filled the air. In front of Ricky was a large pit, with a wooden stake at the bottom. The far side of the pit was open to the sea. He had seen a similar pit before. They had had one on Storm's Eye, for sacrifices. He found it strange to see one again.

All around the pit was a walkway of sorts, carved from the same deep brown stone that the building itself was carved from. To Ricky's left was a wide set of steps, that he assumed led into the next temple, as there was a similar set of steps to his right. As he looked, a figure appeared at the top. He stared. She was not what he had expected at all; he had expected someone like Lucy, strong and intelligent, and wise. A good leader, devoted to the gods. Not... this.

Nerisei seemed to glide down the steps, the tattered end of her cloak dragging. Her feral eyes were stuck to Ricky. She was thin, thin enough that the bones protruded from her hands and wrists, and her eyes were somewhat sunken in her head. The cloak she wore had a deep hood, and the fabric hung off her like flesh from a rotting corpse. Her nails were yellowed and brittle, and her blonde hair was dark, lank, and long, long enough to spill from her hood and cascade in tatters to her waist. Her skin had a sickly pallor to it, making the markings visible on her wizened neck seem like they were glowing an intense blue. The markings decorated her face as well, curving from her forehead down her nose and spreading across her cheeks in wispy tendrils. A pale tongue darted out over her lips, wetting them before she said, “You are the young one with markings of old?”

Ricky wrinkled his nose as she came closer; she smelled awful, like seaweed rotting in the midday sun. “Yes.”

A hand darted out, impatient; she seemed to wring her bony hands constantly, and when they weren’t clasped together they trembled violently. “Show me. Show me.”

He eyed her warily as he pulled aside the top of his robe to show the marks on his skin. Her gaze flickered over them, not settling once. She seemed borderline senile, despite the fact she wasn’t much older than Lucy. Now that Ricky knew the history of his people, he wondered if Lucy had ever met this woman, before half the people continued north and half chose to remain in this squalor.

“Why have you come?” asked Nerisei. Her voice crackled like boots falling on brittle shells. She turned away, padding across the damp stone back towards the steps she had descended from. “Why?”

Ricky noticed another figure at the top of the stairs. She was tall and elegant, dressed in a long velvet cloak of midnight blue that split at her shoulders and showed her bare arms. A Councillor. He could see the handle of a sword at her hip, and silver - not the flashy gold of the whores - glittering on her hands and arms, and on her face too; her nose, her eyebrows, her lips and her ears, small delicate studs and rings. They gleamed against her dark skin like so many stars against the night sky. Her eyes were a grey almost bright enough to match the jewelry. Ricky noticed that Nerisei wore no jewelry at all.

“I’ve come because I was taken here,” said Ricky dryly, looking away from the Councillor and back to Nerisei. “So perhaps you are in a better position to answer that question.”

Nerisei hissed at him. It was a sound he had never heard come from a human before; he believed she might spit venom at any second.

The Councillor spoke from the top of the steps. “Nerisei is your high priestess. Treat her with the respect due.”

Ricky looked at the Councillor - he recalled her name, Seia - and leveled his wisest gaze at her. “She is no high priestess. She presides over a city that thrives on the degradation of my religion.”

“Nerisei is the high priestess of the land,” continued Seia in a cool, smooth voice. She descended the steps, one slow footfall at a time. Her shoes were a soft velvet, clad in decorated wooden pattens. “She is the warrior reincarnate.”

Nerisei nodded eagerly, turning to face the Councillor, her nods growing deeper, almost to bows. She muttered, frantically, _yes, yes, yes._ Ricky raised his brows at this.

“Well, that _is_ some news.”

“And why is that?” said Seia. She allowed Nerisei to touch her cloak once before brushing her aside.

Ricky lifted his chin. “Because I am the warrior reincarnate.”

Nerisei’s scream made him jump in alarm. It was pained, anguished, furious, her eyes flying wide and her fingers curling into hard claws.

“I am the warrior!” she shrieked. “You are nothing! You are scum!”

Seia raised a hand, gently, and Nerisei shrunk in on herself, ducking her head to her chest as she backed away. Seia looked Ricky over, evaluatingly. 

“You’re no warrior,” she decided. “You’re much too small.”

Ricky’s face reddened. “I-”

“And the warrior is to be above human emotion, isn’t that right, Nerisei?” Another flurry of frantic _yes’s_ answered her. Seia looked at Ricky’s neck. “You are not above humanity. You have been infected by love. You’re engaged to be wed.”

Ricky let her come closer; she was taller than him by half a head. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about this-” She took hold of him under his jaw to keep him still, her other hand ripping the ring from his neck with a hard tug; the strength took Ricky by surprise. “-little piece of wood.”

Ricky’s heart began beating harder. “Give that back to me. Now.”

She held the ring by its leather strip, her eyes watching his face. “Just take it, oh great warrior. Break your shackles and take it from me.”

Ricky’s jaw clenched, his eyes flickering between her face and the ring. “That’s- It’s important to me. I want it back.”

Seia smiled, although her eyes remained cold. She held the ring aside. “Nerisei, swallow this.”

At first, Ricky thought he had misheard her. He watched in disbelief as Nerisei took the ring from the leather and put it in her mouth. He heard it hitting against her teeth.

“What are you doing,” he demanded. He could feel Seia still watching his face, enjoying his panic. “Don’t- Do _not-”_

Nerisei swallowed it. It clearly pained her, her eyes squeezing shut, but after a minute she recovered. Seia caressed her face with one hand, almost fondly, like to a dog who had done a simple but enjoyable trick. Ricky stared at them in stunned silence. His neck felt horribly empty. Seia turned her wintry eyes to him again.

“You are no warrior,” she said, and she took him by the throat, pushing his head back so she could look directly down into his eyes. “You’re just like the rest of your kind. You believe your false gods will deliver you to a sweet salvation.” She leaned in close, close enough that her breath brushed his lips as she spoke. “I am the only god in this city.”

Ricky held her gaze, teeth gritted. She smelled like cinnamon and woodsmoke, and her hands were hot. “Your blasphemy will be your death.”

“I _am_ death.” She released him. Her rings left grooves in his neck. “What are you but a man of flesh and blood and carnal desires? The warrior was to be born of salt and sand.”

“You speak of a religion you have no faith in. I won’t listen to you.”

“I’ve studied your religion. I’ve studied it inside and out. I know more about it than anyone else in this land. To know your enemy, to know them well, is to defeat them.” She lifted a hand out to the side and clicked her fingers. “Nerisei, what do we know of the warrior?”

“They are to be born of salt and sand, and they shall return to salt and sand,” babbled Nerisei, as if the quicker she said it, the more approval she would receive.

“And what shall the warrior come forth to do?”

“To defeat the gods’ enemies, and return to the gods a god themselves.”

“And who are the enemies of the gods?”

“Those who are clad in gold, who wear gold upon their heads and gold upon their shoulders, and who walk alongside the clouds and the stars.”

“The monarchs,” specified Seia, lowering her hand back to her side. “The kings and queens of old. Tell me, Goldsworth, have you heard of any monarchs recently? Have you seen one made of flesh, and not stone? Have you spoken to one and had them speak back to you? No. They are gone.”

“Gone,” echoed Nerisei.

Ricky’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps they have just disguised themselves. Perhaps they wear jewel cloaks instead of gold on their shoulders.”

“We are not monarchs,” she said, firm and cool. “The monarchs bowed before the past. We are the future. Everyday we are the future. We have outwitted your gods.”

Nerisei blinked at this, somewhat taken aback. “What?”

Seia whipped a hand at her, clicking her fingers sharply, and Nerisei hurried away up the steps, muttering to herself, until these mutters died away to nothing. Seia continued.

“The gods are dead. They have engaged an enemy they do not know. They have only triumphed in the past because they faced the same enemy again and again, and the warrior slayed the same monarch again and again.”

“The same monarch?”

“I’m sure you’re aware of the warrior and the lover. You must be.” She cocked her head. “The lover can only be the lover reincarnate if they are born from the same bloodline in each of their lives, from the same parentage, just as the warrior must always be born from the sea. We have ensured that the lover’s parentage will never birth the lover. We are what the gods cannot defeat.”

Ricky tried to keep his face neutral, but his mind was reeling. If what she was saying was true, if the Council had outwitted the gods, then Tinsley wasn’t the lover. But he _must_ be. The man who occasionally visited his dreams, in his golden ribs, had told him so himself. Ricky looked back at her with regained confidence.

“You will be defeated. It’s inevitable.”

Seia simply laughed at him. She had a husky laugh, mocking. “This is the problem with you holy folk. You think that just because you state something, that it will come true. Where’s your plan? Your strategy? Your army? The gods are flailing children when they come up against a true enemy. We have conquered all. Snow’s End will fall within the week. Those on the Roost will murder each other into nonexistence, thanks to their own pathetic pride. Blackbird, Silverbird, they name themselves whatever they want, but at the end of the day they're nothing but two tomcats squabbling on a wall. The Professors of Arcania are happier with their heads buried in their books than with their eyes to the world. Lacilia tells me you come from an island to the northwest.” She gently cupped his face with one hand. “Soon, you will be wiped away too.”

Ricky didn’t know how to respond. In this battle of wits, he was being thoroughly beaten. It suddenly occurred to him that he knew nothing at all. “I- I am the warrior. The reason I am here is to defeat the gods’ enemies.” He spoke louder. _“You_ are the gods’ enemies.”

"And how do you propose to defeat me?" She smiled, keeping a hold of his face when he tried to pull away. "Speak up, little god. I can't hear you."

He looked her face over; she was handsome, with a square jaw and dark brows, and her thick dark hair piled around her shoulders. "I... I have faith."

"That's a shame. Having faith is always an early sign of stupidity." She turned his face from side to side, studying every inch. "Nerisei had faith. She still does, in her own pathetic way. But she was stupid. Her faith made her easily controlled. Unfortunately, she will die soon." She raised a mocking eyebrow. "Could you be so easily controlled, little god?"

Ricky glared at her, but his heart was racing. "I will never be like her."

"I hope not. She's gotten very ugly, don't you think? I like pretty people much more. They're easier on the eye." Seia pulled him forward a step, looking down her nose at him. “I like pretty men.” All of a sudden she kissed him, and Ricky found himself quite eager to kiss her back. What was wrong with him, that the more roughly someone handled him, the more he wanted to remain in their grip? He let himself lean forwards against her, his head tilted all the way back, letting her kiss him and kiss him, hard and fierce, before she took her mouth from his. She let a breath pass between them before saying quietly, “But I prefer pretty men who keep their mouths shut.”

Ricky stared up at her with large eyes, his cheeks flushed, and she smiled in satisfaction before turning away.

“Lacilia informed me you don’t bed women.”

Ricky’s eyes followed her. “Perhaps I could make an exception.”

She laughed, brushing her dark hair back off her face. She placed her index and middle fingers lightly against his lips. “You open these far too much for my liking. Maybe if you learned to open them only when necessary.”

Ricky swallowed, and when he opened his mouth to speak her fingertips remained resting on his bottom lip. “And when is ‘necessary’?”

She just smiled wryly before moving away. Ricky squeezed his eyes shut; Tinsley was right, he had no self-control. He needed to learn it, before he became the death of himself. Seia was standing at the edge of the pit now, gazing down at it almost lovingly.

“Your religion was so barbaric you even had a designated method of murder.”

“Murder and sacrifice are not-”

“-are the same thing,” she interrupted without raising her voice.

Ricky glared. “Drowning is the most peaceful way to die.”

“Is that so?” She turned to him. “And when was the last time you drowned?”

Ricky had no response to this. He had a feeling this was not the first time she had had such a conversation. He wondered how many years she had spent berating Nerisei's beliefs, crushing her self-confidence into dirt. She smiled again, looking down at the stake in the centre of the pit.

"Worry not. You'll know how it feels to drown soon enough." She raised her voice, calling to the guards. "Take him away. His sacrifice will take place at dawn."

Ricky heard the guards approach, their rattling swords and daggers, and each took a hold of one arm. He glared at the back of her head. She spoke over her shoulder.

"And bring the rider to me. Even if he's in a disguise, I'll know."

It was then Ricky realized. She was tall and cold, with light eyes and surprising strength, and a sword at her hip. From this angle, he could see more than the handle. It was a rapier. She was a rider herself. Or had been one, for he saw no trace of a griffin.

He was escorted up the steps that Nerisei and Seia had come down from, and as he went he heard the doors to the temple creak open. He caught Tinsley's eyes with his own, only briefly, only a light touch, like hands brushing off each other as they were pulled apart. Then he was brought down into darkness, and the echoing sound of dripping water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have somehow written a story about two men, who most definitely get pegged, falling in love with each other
> 
> also i apologize but i actually dont think i can write a villain who isnt in some way sexual. it's just beyond my abilities


	20. Those Willing To Drown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The sea speaks more honestly to those willing to drown."_

The strong sea breeze made their cloaks flap and flutter, so that to a sailor out at sea they appeared to be little black flames flickering against the greenery of the marshes beyond. But although the breeze was strong, it was by no means a gale. It was strange, how the storms had stopped coming after Ricky had left. Lucy supposed that perhaps she should have urged Ricky to travel to the mainland sooner, but she had been so hesitant to let him go to such a dangerous place. More than that, she still had harboured some doubts that Ricky was who he was meant to be. Yes, despite everything, she had still had some doubts. If he truly was meant to change the world, then the gods would cause him to leave without her intervention. And that was exactly what they did.

Ever since Lucy and the other holy folk had landed on the barren shores of the island, storms had battered the coastline. It was anger, Lucy now realized. Anger at what had happened to the people, due to the Council’s actions. Anger that the Council was throwing everything off course. Something had indeed gone horribly off course for the gods. As a result they had plagued the people with sea fever, demanding action, to hurry and do what needed to be done, trying to find someone who was strong enough to do it. Yet the gods had remained angry all the way until the day Ricky finally left. Perhaps, thought Lucy, they had followed him away from Storm’s Eye, guiding him to make sure he would go where he needed to be. Little did Lucy know that Ricky was the only person who was where he was supposed to be.

“You don’t believe me. You’ve never believed me.”

“Never believed what? That the boy is made from sand?”

“That’s not what I told you,” she said with brimming impatience.

“You told me you made him from sand,” said Mikel in a flat tone. “I don’t care if you shared your bed with someone else. I don’t care that you ended up with child because of it. I care because you have lied to me about it for the last thirty years!” 

“It’s not a lie! Why do you think no one has had sea fever since I had it? I was the last one, and the only person to survive it. The gods chose me to help them bring the warrior back into the world. Why do you think he survived when you threw him off that cliff in a- in a jealous rage? The gods washed him straight back up onto the beach.”

“Sure luck.”

“Not luck, Mikel. Destiny.” Lucy folded her arms across her chest, her cloak flapping in the cool sea breeze. The breeze toyed with her hair, plaiting it and unplaiting it repeatedly with small tugs. “It’s not my problem if you don’t want to believe me. But just think to yourself - what other man on this island looks like Ricky? Because Ricky doesn’t look like me, but for his eyes.”

“I know you visit the other islands. Even though no one else is allowed to.”

“Then we’ll do a damn tour of those islands and you will still see none that look like Ricky!” she said. Her voice was raised against the wind, but she had a feeling it would've been raised anyway.

“Well if he really is what you claim him to be, then he’ll return home triumphant one day.” He waved a hand at the sea. “We haven’t heard a single whisper from him for weeks. He’s most likely dead.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“It’s the truth! He was always headstrong and arrogant. He’s probably made himself ten times more enemies than he has friends. Such an insufferable little-”

“You’re being a child.”

“And he’s supposed to meet this lover, isn’t he? This king’s daughter from the tales? The mainland is vast and cruel. They’ll never meet. If the boy had any sense at all he would’ve just shut his loud mouth and stayed here where it’s safe.”

“They will meet." Lucy jerked her chin up. "Destiny finds a way.”

“Destiny has never faced a foe like the Council,” hissed Mikel, stepping closer, as if even speaking the word too loudly would result in them appearing on the horizon in a bloodthirsty hoard. “They know the tales too. They’ll have done everything in their power to thwart destiny. You know that as much as I do.”

Lucy shook her head. “Destiny doesn’t work alone. It has its allies too.”

"Oh? Like who?"

"Like the People of the End. They still exist. They still worship."

"You don't know that. When was the last time you heard any news from the mainland?" Mikel spread his arms. "We are alone out here, Lucy! Completely isolated! The Council can't reach us out here but we will still dwindle down to nothing on these rotten islands."

Lucy sighed heavily, closing her eyes. "We will not be on these islands forever. When the warrior-"

"Ricky is not the warrior," said Mikel firmly. "He is a sly and unlikable little man. Unless he has found someone who will beat some respect into him, then he's as good as done for."

"Well- Well maybe he has."

"I hope he has. He needed to be put in his place. Strutting around this island as if he ruled the entire place." Mikel tutted. "If he didn't have the face he has he wouldn't be half as popular as he is."

Lucy rolled her eyes. "You're jealous of a man half your age."

Mikel rubbed at his eyes, resting his head in his hands. "I'm tired, Lucy. I'm tired of living on this- this rock in the middle of nowhere. I want to go home. And I mean our actual home."

"Mikel, my sweet." She fixed his cloak around his shoulders, looking into his eyes. "We will not be here forever. The fleet remains close. When we receive a sign, we can go home."

"I hope you're right, Lucy. I truly do."

She smiled. "Well that's good, because I am. Now come. Dinner is to be served soon."

"Fish again, is it."

"Don't be ungrateful!"

* * *

Tinsley had known the second he saw her; the height, the build, the light eyes, the delicately-forged rapier on her belt. Even without the coat, he knew she was a rider. He saw the recognition dawn on her face as he stood in front of her, his hands bound at his back. The guards had tied the rope sloppily; it would hardly take him a second to get free. But for now, it was better if she thought he was captured securely.

"Impossible," she said, coming towards him. "You're meant to be six feet in the ground."

Tinsley didn't look away from her face. He didn't reply.

"Ventis wrote to me directly," she said, still studying him, as if there was a chance that it was all an elaborate ruse, "saying that you'd been taken care of."

"Ventis has never known what he's talking about," muttered Tinsley, the hairs prickling at the back of his neck just from the thought of the other man.

"How did you manage it, hm?"

"Ventis gained his followers through terror. There's no true loyalty in terror." Tinsley tilted his head a tad. "And terror is only there for two things; to be cowered away from, or to be overthrown. And cowering can get very tiring very quickly."

She gave him a wry look before stepping back, looking him up and down, arching an eyebrow at his somewhat shabby appearance. "Things have gone downhill, have they, Silverbird? It gets rough when you're far from home. Honour and pride doesn't do much out in the real world. It just gets you in trouble, doesn't it."

Tinsley disagreed somewhat, but he wasn't about to let her know that. He wasn't going to start into the story of why he stood in clothing that wasn't his, either. He had come to know that, in situations like this, the less he spoke, the less likely he was to trip himself up in later conversations. So he just continued watching her with cold eyes. She touched the lapel of his coat - Ricky's coat - and raised an eyebrow.

"This is a sailor's coat. Do you sail, now?"

"No."

"Then what story are you not telling me? I'll remind you that you're currently my prisoner, and if you won't give me answers I'll take them from you."

Tinsley gritted his teeth, wondering if it was too soon to pull his hands free from his bindings and turn the situation around. "You don't have your coat either. Tell me what happened to you and I'll tell you all about my... whimsical adventures."

"Well, our stories might begin a little similarly."

Tinsley quirked an eyebrow. He was, admittedly, a little bit intrigued.

“You’re not the only one who was exiled,” said Seia, quiet. She watched him, watched the brief flicker of pain cross his face, the same brief flickers she used to experience when she had first been thrown aside. “Strange, isn’t it? How our home is the only place to willingly expel its citizens for the smallest breaches of law. And our laws are like nowhere else, aren’t they? So strict. So _cruel.”_

"Cruelty can be necessary," said Tinsley, although not with the same certainty he used to associate with the sentence.

"Because weakness is a disease that has to be cured young," said Seia dryly. "Yes, we've all learnt that lesson. We've all heard the mantra. We had no choice. We've never had choice, in anything."

Tinsley followed her with his eyes as she moved back and forth across the damp stone, slowly.

“We’re taught shame from the moment we’re born. We’re not told who our parents are, because they must be shameful, if they lay together to create us. To even look at one another with lustful intentions is worthy of punishment if the wrong person catches you. We’re taught to stand up straight, to wield weapons, to humble ourselves by using them against each other. And we are never given a choice.” She looked at him. “When did you receive your first punishment, Silverbird? I was nine when my barracks master decided to publicly humiliate me. But you know all about public humiliation. That was the true start of the war, wasn’t it? When they sat that poor woman on the ground in Greatsky and began shaving her head in front of everyone watching. She had blonde hair, I believe. Lovely blonde hair. What had she done? Sent a letter to the mainland, sent the truth to Arcania, thinking she'd get help? But the Council wanted her punished, and they do have a liking for leaving people with a mark of their punishment. But you were the one who stepped forwards. You were the one who stepped out of the crowd and shouted for everyone to hear, for everyone to see, ‘that’s enough!’ That’s when the war really began.”

Tinsley didn’t object. He just watched her closely. “I find it hard to tell what side you’re on here.”

She ignored him, continuing on in her retrospection. It seemed that she had been thinking about these things for quite a while, but had never had someone to tell her thoughts to. “We were not always the way we are now. These rules, these laws of ours were inflicted on us, we didn’t choose them. We didn’t choose to be trapped on an island far away from everywhere else. We didn’t choose to see sex as repulsive and below us. It was all forced on us. I’ve just yet to find out why.”

Tinsley was entirely confused. He hid it from his face, but his heart was beginning to beat heavily. “What are you talking about?”

“I am talking about the ancient text,” she whispered, coming closer. “The one I was shown when I first was instated in this pit. It mentions monarchs. Monarchs who wore gold on their shoulders and walked among the clouds and the stars. Don’t you see? Don’t you see what that means?”

Tinsley stared at her, unblinking. “The ancient text is- is a lie. Fables.”

“Have you ever read it?” She spread her hands. “Some parts are religious rantings, of course. But some are simply historical records. It’s unmistakable. It can’t be read any other way. The description, of tall people with light eyes and gold on their clothing.” Her eyes were feverish, excited. “You have royalty in your veins, Silverbird. We all do. _We_ are the monarchs in the stories. We always have been.”

Tinsley mentally shook himself, trying to stay grounded in reality. “You have no proof of that. If we- If we were the monarchs, then what happened to us?”

“The Council has a plan. It’s been in motion for years now. Years. Their plan is to twist fate until it’s unrecognizable. Their plan is to make _us_ unrecognizable. First, they strip us of our history. Then they force us to an island, where we’re isolated from everyone else. Then the rules come in, the laws, and we enforce them on ourselves. And then, their last piece of the plan, they cause us to kill each other in the streets. And on top of all this, we’re taught that loving each other is shameful, and that there’s something vile, something repulsive about laying together. We’re told one child per couple, one child only.” She was close to him now, her words rushed and somewhat frightened. “It’s an extermination, don’t you see? They’re slowly, slowly making us kill ourselves off.”

Tinsley swallowed. “But- But why?”

“I don’t know,” she muttered. “I don't know why they'd want the monarchs dead. That’s the one part I don’t have an answer to.”

“Then the rest is pure speculation.”

“You’re afraid. I'm afraid too. I lie to the people here. I tell them the monarchs are dead and gone. It's too early to let people know what I know.”

Tinsley glared at her. “Afraid? Of what? The Council? You’re one of them!”

“I was exiled from our home,” she replied icily. “I had nowhere else to go. And I know that you’re very much aware of the feeling. Look at you. You’ve been wandering with nowhere to go since you were thrown out. I notice you’ve gotten rid of the coat. It’s easier to shed the coat, isn’t it? It becomes quite heavy after a while.”

“I- I don't know if I should believe a single word coming from your mouth,” said Tinsley. "I saw no griffin over the city."

Her response sent shivers through him. “I had to give up many things to the Council in order to survive.”

He stared. “...They killed it.”

“I don’t know what they did.” She swallowed hard, trying to make the emotion stay down. “When I was exiled, I was left with nothing. No money. No home. No purpose. I gave over my coat, my pistol, my musket, and- and my griffin, and they gave me a way to stay out of poverty.”

Tinsley tried to imagine how it would feel to hand Sky over to strangers, to look her in the eye and see that she knew they were never going to see each other again. “I would’ve rather died.”

“You don’t know what you would have done,” she said, almost pityingly. “No one does. Not until they’re in the situation. We like to think we’re a proud people, don’t we? The truth is that we’re a barbaric society. The most barbaric one there is.”

“That’s not true.”

“No other city exiles its citizens. No other city teaches its own children how to murder, and praises them when they do it well. No other city uses firepowder to create weapons that can kill with one shot, and then prize these weapons above all else. All we think about, all we pursue is how to kill, how to harm. Only us.”

Tinsley paused. He remembered Ricky, his sharp laugh, his words, _You call me a savage when you’re the one to jump to violence in response to all and everything._ Was it true? Were they the barbaric ones? “But...”

Seia waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she nodded once. “Exactly.” She straightened up. “The Council has informed me that once I prove I can keep control of a city like this, they will relocate me to the Roost. There, I intend to reform our society. I will make us what we once were. I will make us truly worthy of pride. No more encouraging violence in our children. No more shame of our desires. We will be royal again.”

Tinsley wasn’t sure if she was sane or not. “They’ll never let you do that. How long have you been here?”

“Thirty years now.”

“And you’re still here? You’re a fool if you trust the Council. Even if you’re one of them.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “But we all have aspirations that we cling to, don’t we. They keep us alive.”

"Your aspirations sound like they might kill you in the end."

"And what are your aspirations, Silverbird?" Her eyes narrowed. "Why are you here. Where's your griffin. Where's your coat, your weapons."

Tinsley took a deep breath. "It's a long story."

"Well that's fine. I like listening to long stories."

"Well that's a shame. I don't like telling them."

Seia opened her mouth to respond, but then closed it, a dry smile on her face. "I almost believe it could be heresy to kill the Silverbird. Even though you're already meant to be dead." She raised her chin. "But I don't want you to die."

"That's good."

"I want you to work with me," she said. "This is an opportunity I didn't think I'd get. I want you, in the future, to return with me to the Roost. We can rule there. Together."

Tinsley blinked a few times as he processed this demand. "I'm not very good at ruling."

"Of course you are. You're the Silverbird. The people loved you. They probably still do."

"I was good at winning battles. I was good at war. I've never ruled anything."

She smiled again. "Well, that could be even more useful. Because, you see, I _am_ good at ruling. But I'm not very good at winning battles. I don't have a mind for tactics in that regard."

"I'm not going to conquer our home just for you to rule it," said Tinsley icily. "I fought to free it. I fought for years to free it."

"You _will_ be freeing it."

"And whose army would I be using? The Council's? The very same one that murdered my friends in front of me? You must be out of your mind."

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, the first plan of action would be to get rid of Ventis, of course. How would you feel about doing that?"

Tinsley eyed her warily. "I'm sure it would feel very good. But I'm not interested. If the Roost is at peace now, then just let it be. Gods know it's seen enough blood in the streets to last a century."

A silence. "It's not at peace. The war is still ongoing."

Tinsley watched her closely, carefully, for any hint of a lie. "It ended when I was defeated. That's how war works."

"You don't know," she breathed.

"You must think I'm a fool if you believe I'll fall for this act."

"The war continued after you left. Are you really so unaware?"

"I will not be going home," said Tinsley fiercely. "Enough with these lies. You're beginning to irritate me."

She didn't smile, or laugh, or move at all. She just watched him. Then she looked to the guards and nodded. "Take him away." She looked back at him. "We will talk further. You've missed much."

Tinsley let the guards take hold of his arms. "What about the man who was here. The man before me."

She was already moving away, back towards the stairs. "What business is it of yours?"

"What are you going to do with him?"

 _"I'm_ not going to do anything with him." She stopped halfway up the steps, looking back down at him. "What is he to you?"

Tinsley couldn't stop the sudden flush from creeping onto his face. "Nothing. I was just curious."

Her eyes widened somewhat. "Oh, Silverbird. You've not fallen for some foreign whore, have you?"

"He's not-" Tinsley gritted his teeth, looking away. "I don't know him."

Seia just smiled, witheringly. "Of course you don't. No one knows the whores by name. Yet somehow, people still fall for them. Did he treat you well, Silverbird? He was quite feisty, I thought. If a little dim. But the pretty face made up for it." She laughed. "I'll make sure to send Lacilia your regards."

Tinsley glared at her from below his brows, teeth still clenched. He let himself be taken away, back out the doors of the temple and into the city. There was no point in breaking free now and causing a scene. He would wait until the guards thought him safely locked away, and then he would free himself, and he and Ricky would be out of the city walls before Seia even knew what was happening.

* * *

Fran returned in the light.

She returned early, early in the morning, when dawn was breaking on the far sea, brushing its feathery fingers against the city. The mist had dissipated slowly overnight. She had to time her walk tactically; leave when dark, arrive at the old School of Dreams and Omens when it was bright. There had been something about it, something about the paintings, something about the deep, dark depths of the building that had haunted her mind, both awake and asleep. It was a thought that wouldn’t leave, a thought that lingered constantly, seeing through her eyes, touching everything she looked upon. There was something in Dreams and Omens for her to find.

She did what she and Darla had done the night before; she pulled at the loose hinge of the gate, and again the white paint crumbled off on her fingers. She slipped through, careful not to catch her clothing on the broken hinge. The uniform buildings that made up the School were just as ghostly in the dawn as they were in the night; tall and pale, and stretching back row after row. Fran went back to the one she had been in the night before.

The door scraped against the dusty floor as she pushed it open. She needed as much light in as possible, and the sun was just beginning to break the horizon. In the filtered sunlight, she could see the air was full of dust particles. She held her scarf across her nose and mouth, and stepped into the building.

It was more magnificent than she could’ve pictured. The ground was a mosaic of tiny black and gold tiles, making it seem as if someone had sprinkled the ground with coins. The frescoes were where they had been the night before. She had intended on studying the one that had held her attention the night beforehand. Their cloaks had looked familiar, she knew they had. Darla had said they looked like their own embroidered cloaks, but Fran knew they weren’t the same; the cloaks in the frescoes weren’t embroidered with gold. The gold was on them, on the shoulders and the high collars. But Fran didn’t have to look at the painting to confirm her suspicions.

At the end of the building, now visible in the dawn, was a gigantic statue of a griffin. It was large enough to dominate the end of the building entirely, its highest point almost touching the roof. Its stone wings were spread, and it was rearing on its hind legs; its crown was a horned owl, its rear a fox, the bushy tail straight. It looked unsettlingly lifelike, like any moment it might shake the dust and debris off its feathers, bound out the door and take to the skies. Fran looked back at the fresco. In the light, she saw. She saw that the shimmering yellow jewel that sat above the monarch’s shoulder was really the eye of a faded griffin. Fran knew that what she was piecing together was forbidden, entirely forbidden. The monarchs were dead, said the Council. They died out a long time ago. Fran swallowed hard. She should leave. She had seen far too much. But too much had never been enough for her.

She continued on towards the statue of the griffin. Her shadow was long and stretched-out before her. It went up the steps before she did. Now that she was closer, she saw that the griffin was not alone. At its feet was another statue, a humanoid one. The facial features had been worn away by time, but still she could see what it was; a rider, with the details of their coat pressed into the stone and a crumbling rapier at their hip. Atop their head was a stone crown, broken. Some parts of it lay on the ground at their feet.

The echoing sound of a droplet landing into water made her head turn aside in alarm. To the right was a small doorway that led into an adjoining room. The sound of a falling droplet didn’t come again. Fran chewed on her lip, looking back at the statue in front of her. She tilted her head back to look up at the griffin, where its talons hovered above her head, large enough to skewer her on the spot. She had come this far. She might as well continue on.

The next room was darker than the first. The only light came from windows far above. Against the right wall were stone steps, crossing each other back and forth, before they reached what Fran assumed was one of the bridges that led to the next building. But the thing that caught her attention the most unwaveringly was a large, empty ceramic bowl. It was shallow, and wide enough that she could climb into it and walk across to the other side. It dominated the room entirely. The ceramic was cool against her hands as she held the side of it. Something gold glimmered in the centre. Fran didn’t hesitate now. She climbed in and went towards it.

A small, dull ring. She crouched down, picking it up and wiping the centrepiece with the corner of her sleeve. Her breath caught in her throat, her blood went still in her veins. A dull gold, two skeletal hands holding a shining emerald between them. Identical to the one her father had given her. Identical to the one that her mother had supposedly owned before she passed away. Fran sat down, holding the ring in the palm of her hand. It made no sense. Why would a ring from Gravehearth be in here? One identical to her own? She squinted into the deep green of the emerald, as if she could find the answer there.

“This place needs to be demolished.”

“Entirely. It should have been done long ago.”

Fran whipped around, her heart leaping into her throat, hammering against her skin. The voices had come from the first room, the one with the paintings and the statues. She crouched down under the edge of the bowl, holding her scarf against her mouth to try and soften her panicked breathing.

"You're right. But other things kept cropping up, and no one ever comes here. And another thing has cropped up. The libraries are of utmost importance, as of now."

"Why is that?"

"You know why it is. These damned smugglers, copying out the books and sending them out of the city for safe-keeping. They're like vermin in the street. We have yet to find their nest." The voice was a male voice, cool and collected, and not one that Fran had heard before. "But burning the libraries might help. They'll be falling over themselves trying to get books out of the city walls. They'll be much more likely to slip up, to make a mistake, and I have enough eyes on the streets that when they do, I'll see it."

"Do you have any suspects?"

A derisive snort. "This entire city is suspect. Every single student, every binder, every baker, every tailor. And especially those accursed Head Professors. Banjo the blathering fool, Gabriel with his empty head. Delia and her rotten temper. I'd throw all of them in Greatlight, if only they'd give me the chance."

"The search of their quarters was futile?"

"Unfortunately. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"You didn't think to plant anything?"

"No. No, that would only spell trouble." A pause, the sound of footsteps soft over a dusty floor. "There are the beginnings of unrest within the walls. I'm not blind to it. The news of the miners taking Snow's End has filled people's heads with thoughts of adventure and excitement. But an unhappy populace can simmer for a long time, if handled correctly. Toss a scrap to the dogs and they'll converge on it before coming for more. So we will not give the people a single scrap to taste victory from."

"I've been on the Roost for a long time now," came the reply. This man's voice was quiet and brittle. "Believe me, Theonas, if the people get hungry enough they'll take the meat from your very bones regardless of whether or not they're given scraps beforehand."

"Arcanians are as different from riders as chalk from cheese."

"If you insist."

"How is the Roost? Have things simmered down at all?"

"Riders aren't the type to 'simmer down', I'm afraid. This war will be until one side perishes entirely."

"And still no sign of the Horsley woman?"

"No. So she has either died in an explosives assault, or she's off running some errands of alarming secrecy."

"Mm. And no sign of her griffin?"

"There never is. It has the crown of a barn owl; its hearing and eyesight are next to none. It knows we're coming from miles away."

Fran listened to all this, still holding her scarf to her nose and mouth to keep her breathing quiet. Why did they talk of the Roost, if it was at peace? Why did they talk of unrest within the city? She hadn't noticed any unrest, but then again, she hadn't been looking too closely. She'd been spending a large amount of her time with Dee, after all, and when she was with Dee the rest of the world always seemed to fade into the background.

"And what about the Silverbird? You know it's detrimental that he's kept alone and far away. Dead, if possible."

Fran's eyes widened. The Silverbird _was_ dead. Or was that just what they had been taught? Was nothing in this city even worth listening to? She wished her heart was beating quieter, so she could hear what was being said more clearly.

"Nothing for a few days now. Riders are difficult like that; with their griffins they can vanish and reappear wherever they set their minds to."

A pensive silence. "I don't like where all of this is going, Primus. It seems our plans were not thorough enough. We have the rebels in the north. We have an endless war on the Roost. We have this so-called warrior in the east, and the Silverbird more-or-less running loose. There's the seeds of dissent within our very own walls. And then those Hearthians, abiding by their own laws hardly a day's ride away. Our control is dwindling. We need to enforce it more strictly."

Fran listened harder at the mention of Gravehearth. She would memorize every word, and write a letter to her father with everything in it. But unfortunately, they spoke no more of Gravehearth.

"An unusual place, isn't it?"

The voices were closer now; they echoed around the very room she was in. Fran curled in on herself, pressing back against the curve of the bowl.

"Do you think they really could tell the past and the future just from a giant bowl of seawater?"

"It seems so. The paintings, the statues, are all a bit too accurate to dismiss. But they wouldn't have been able to tell _this_ future." The owner of the voice, Theonas, sounded smug. "The Silverbird's child was gotten rid of. The war - our war - made Horsley decide not to keep it. That makes him the last of his bloodline. We have broken the cycle, don't you see? This is the final turn of the past. Once the warrior is taken care of, we have won."

Fran had no idea what they were talking about, but she didn't like it. She heard their footsteps receding, their murmured voices growing quieter and quieter, until they were silent. She looked at the ring in her hand, with its small, fragile emerald. She suddenly felt as if she had awoken onboard a ship to find herself sailing in the midst of a storm, with the sea rolling angrily about her, and a storm breaking the sky above, in the beautiful, terrifying way that storms do. 

* * *

Ricky sat in the dark, damp depths of the temple. It wasn't an atmosphere that enforced much discomfort upon him. He liked the dark and the damp, and he liked the smell of the sea, and the sound of it crashing against the rocks not too far away. Not too far away at all.

He had been in the cell for a while. He spent the time on his knees, head bowed, in prayer. The gods didn't require much in terms of prayer. It was a lot more effective to take action; to make sacrifices to them, to carve their markings into one's skin, to spread their faith by word. But occasionally, when there was not much else to turn to, Ricky turned to prayer. Even so, the prayers did not follow a strict structure. They were more akin to conversations and self-introspection than anything else. All in all, prayers were the aspect of the religion that Ricky found the hardest. But he prayed. He asked for courage, and he wasn't afraid. He asked for guidance, and he knew what he had to do. He had to give his faith to the gods, and they would deliver him safely through the events to come. He had to give himself to them, and they would use him as they saw fit.

"Are you angry?"

Ricky opened his eyes at the familiar voice. "No."

"Then why do you frown?"

"I'm trying to focus."

Ricky looked up, and the man in the gold-ribcage stood across the dark room from him. He was watching Ricky from over his spectacles as he puffed away on a smoking pipe. The pipe had a bowl in the shape of a skull, and its eyes were watching Ricky too.

"Seems that you've found yourself in some trouble," said the man, observing the dank surroundings. He had an intelligent face, a wise one. "Where are you?"

Ricky watched him suspiciously. "Who are you."

The man smiled. "I'm an ally. I'm here to help."

"How did you get here."

"Well, I'm not truly here." He came closer, and when he put his hand aside to grasp something, a plush armchair appeared. He sat in it. Ricky could see the side of it was bathed in light from a fire that he couldn't see or feel. "But our gods can be generous with their blessings, don't you agree?"

Ricky blinked. "You're divinating."

"Yes, I am. I don't do it often, and I can't do it without some of this." He gave the pipe in his hand a small shake. "It makes your mind more... flexible. Not that you'd require it."

Ricky shuffled forwards slightly on his knees, the shackles around his wrists scraping off the ground. "Are you here to free me?"

"I don't think I can. I can't touch you solidly while divinating. I'm not capable of that."

Ricky closed his eyes. "I'm not capable either. Look at me." He gave his shackles a shake. "Trapped."

"And what happened to your companion? Did he up and leave?"

"No. Surprisingly not."

"Then surely he will come for you."

"I don't know how. He's trapped too."

The man smiled softly. "All that matters is that you've found each other. The rest is bound to work out."

"I know. I know he's the lover. I can feel it. But- But he hates me. There's something in him that hates me."

The man looked quite puzzled at this. He sat back and crossed his legs; his trousers were of a neat, tailored black fabric, and his shoes were shiny. "Hates you? Why do you say that?"

"Because he's said it. And he makes it clear."

"But he's come after you. That's a good sign." The man took a pensive puff of his pipe, exhaling the thick smoke into the air. It looked pure white against the darkness. "Surely that's a good sign..."

"But then why am I still here? I've seen what he can do. Fighting comes as naturally to him as walking does. More naturally, even! If he wanted to free me, I'd be free by now."

The man gave an almost fond shake of his head. "No. _You're_ the warrior. You can free yourself."

"How? Tell me how."

"Why do you expect me to know how?"

"Because- Because you have more control over divination than I've ever seen. Mine was accidental. What happened at Snow's End with the dam was accidental. When I tried to see Tinsley's memories I almost killed myself. What happened at that village- I can hardly remember what happened! It's not me doing any of these things, I can't _remember."_

Another kind smile. "It's as I said, you're not alone inside your head."

Ricky finally understood Tinsley's frustrations at being talked to in riddles. "But what does that mean?"

"Do you find yourself hearing voices in your head that aren't yours?" He nodded at the dawning realization on Ricky's face. "You see? Not everyone is a reincarnation, but those who are tend to hear such voices, of their past selves."

Ricky stared; he had been hearing voices for a while now, and he remembered Tinsley talking of voices in _his_ head too. "How do you know all this."

"The subject has always interested me. My wife was... quite the expert."

"I- Where are you. I want to meet you. I have- I have so many questions."

There was a hesitation, as if the man felt it too cruel to refuse. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you come here. It's safest if you don't."

"Then come to me." Ricky held his gaze, commanding. "Come to me and answer my questions. I can't do what I have to do if I don't know everything."

"Oh, now don't be mistaken. I don't know everything. I'm only human."

"You're human?" Ricky seemed a little taken aback. "Oh. I thought you were maybe... a messenger, or something."

"Unfortunately not."

Ricky pursed his lips, looking aside. "I see."

The man stood up, and behind his golden spectacles his eyes squeezed shut. He raised a hand to his head, touching his temple. "Ah. I'm afraid I'll have to leave you now. This stuff-" He gave the pipe a shake. "-makes me awfully lightheaded."

There was a clattering of keys in the wooden cell door, somewhere in the dark that Ricky couldn't see. When he turned back to ask the man what he thought was best to do, there was nothing there but more darkness. He had gone. If Ricky wasn't aware of divination, he would've thought the encounter a slip of his mind into madness.

When the cell door creaked open, the light that filtered in was deep and blue. Ricky didn't say a word. He let himself be taken out of the cell and back up the slimy steps he had been escorted down. The night had passed swiftly, more swiftly than he could've imagined, but time always decides to up the pace when there is something unpleasant on the horizon.

Ricky didn't resist once. He knew that Seia had been correct, in a way; the warrior had to be above human emotion. He had to rely entirely on the gods, and have the faith that they would keep him safe.

In the grey light of the dawn, Ricky could see the interior of the temple in a way he hadn't been able to before. The pit still remained in the centre, deeper and wider than the one on Storm's Eye. There was a large, circular metal door set into the far wall. Ricky knew that the sea waited on the other side, and that once the doors had been opened it would pour forward and claim whatever fortunate soul waited in the pit below. Drowning was the most peaceful way to die, and those who were willing to drown would leave the world in a blissful ecstasy. Above the pit, the temple carried on and on and on, into a shadowy point. He was certain he could see gulls flapping back and forth, but their squawking and scrambling sounded far away.

The guards brought him to a halt in front of Nerisei and Seia. Ricky didn't show any fright. He let his head loll back in a manner of utmost condescension, baring his throat. Nerisei glared at him with her baleful little eyes. Seia smiled, almost in approval. Her eyes lingered on his throat. Then she looked to Nerisei and nodded, as if giving her permission to take control of the event.

"You say you are the warrior," said Nerisei, clearly displeased by Ricky's arrogant nonchalance. "You are a liar and a false prophet."

"And what makes you so sure that your claim to being the warrior is more truthful than mine?" he said, his voice cool and easy.

"Because you are a stupid little boy."

Ricky inclined his head, pitiful. "Is that all you can rely on to plead your case? Insults?"

Seia was watching him with interest. She spoke over Nerisei. "What are you to the Silverbird?"

Ricky was somewhat caught out by the question. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"He showed some interest in your wellbeing."

Ricky's heart fluttered, but he disguised it. He gave his shackles a rattle. "Obviously not a lot."

"But you do know him."

"We've spent some time together," replied Ricky vaguely, trying not to think of the feeling of Tinsley's hands on his body, the feeling of his mouth against Ricky's, the waves softly brushing around them. "Not a very intriguing story, I'm afraid."

She watched his face, clearly not fooled. Her eyes were clear and piercing, as if she could see right into his head and sift through his memories at her leisure. "You do know he risks quite a monumental amount by lying with you."

"That's fine, because we haven't lain together."

"A rider who chooses a foreigner for a lover is rarely welcomed back home." She watched him ever more closely. "So it's extremely important that you inform me whether he has been intimate with you. I have a use for him, you see."

"Listen, it pains me to say it," drawled Ricky, looking at her from under heavy lids, "but we've never shared a bed. Sorry to disappoint."

"He must have a backbone of steel, then."

"You have no idea."

She seemed satisfied. Once again, she nodded to Nerisei to take over. Ricky ran his tongue along the ridges of his teeth, watching the priestess with distaste. She rattled on about her destiny and her role in the world, all of which Ricky was very much doubtful of. When he finally felt the guards take him, he wanted to sigh with relief. They brought him down into the pit, and he heard Nerisei's scuttling footsteps behind him, like some grotesque insect. Seia watched him descend, looking down her nose at them. Ricky didn't cry out for help, or make a fuss. He let himself be bound to the wooden stake, the rope digging into his arms and ribs. As the guards tied him in place he just watched Nerisei's face from below his lashes. Outside, the sky was turning grey with cloud.

"There's a storm coming," said Ricky, resting his head back against the stake.

"It will go once you have been sacrificed."

"This storm requires more than that."

"Then we will give it more."

"No. No, it will _take_ more."

Nerisei suddenly looked at him with steady eyes. Her voice was lower, but without the brittle edge. "How do you still have your faith."

Ricky blinked in surprise at the change. "What are you talking about."

"Do you know how long I have been trapped in here?" she said, keeping her back to the guards, and to Seia up above. "Do you know how long I have been trapped with her? She's evil. Truly evil. All riders are. You should keep that in mind."

Ricky was watching her face with sudden alarm. "What? Why are riders evil?"

"Gold on their shoulders, walking alongside the clouds and the stars," she whispered, watching his face right back. "The gods have long abandoned us. We face nothing but extinction.”

"The gods abandoned you when you sold your faith," spat Ricky from between his teeth. He felt as if he was talking to a stranger, she appeared so different from moments before. The lines remained on her face, her hair remained scraggy and unkempt, but her eyes were entirely sane, her hands steady.

Nerisei shook her head. "You have no idea how you would've acted. They would have killed us. All of us."

"Then I would've died. I would've died proud in my faith, instead of living the rest of my life cowering in this rotten carcass of a city."

Nerisei was backing away, and slowly she was hunching over again, back into her lifelong disguise. "We have lost. We will die."

"You think you can live like this and not face punishment from the gods you mock?" He shook his head, his dark hair falling about his face. "There is a reckoning coming your way. Pray hard. Pray now."

Nerisei hissed at him to be silent. Then she left him. She made her way painstakingly up the steps, and Seia watched her every move with disgust. Ricky imagined ever acting like Nerisei, ever allowing Tinsley to control him in such a way. He would never. Nerisei was weak. Smart, but weak.

It was Seia who gave the signal for the doors to be opened. Ricky heard the grating of a lever being pulled; it echoed across the cavernous building. He closed his eyes.

The constant drip-drip-dripping of water slowed to a halt. The rushing of the sea sounded far away. Nerisei waited. She waited, shaking with excitement, because Seia was watching her with suspicion. As the seconds passed, Nerisei allowed herself to grow impatient. It was a genuine feeling; she was aware that with every year she spent pretending to be mad, the more mad she was truly becoming. She turned to the guard, glaring.

"What are you waiting for! Pull it!"

He blinked, tugging at the lever again. "I did."

"There's no water," hissed Nerisei, "so you didn't. Do it."

"I- I did. I am."

Seia glanced around the temple, at the sudden silence inside, at the lack of trickling, dripping water. She moved around the pit, leaving Nerisei to rant at the guard for not doing his job properly. As she circled the pit, Ricky watched her. He seemed strangely calm, his hair waving softly in a non-existent breeze. She glared at him, walking faster.

The first roar of thunder made her come to a sudden halt, clutching at her cloak. Outside, the world had darkened. The clouds above were thick and full, broiling, rolling around each other, like waves in an angry sea. But of the sea itself, there was no sign. All she could see was the damp sand, stretching on and on, to a dark blue line in the distance. Her heart began beating hard, goosebumps flooding her skin. The first smatterings of cold rain brushed against her arms. It was swiftly becoming heavier, and there was a persistent roaring sound, the land rumbling beneath her. The rain misted in the air, and she could hardly see a foot in front of herself.

When she saw it coming, her shoulders slowly slumped, her hands going limp by her sides. She was a black silhouette against the furious white froth of the oncoming wave, a wave taller and wider than any of the temples. She closed her eyes, and lone tears joined the rainwater on her face. The last thing she heard was a terrified chorus of screams from the city behind her, and the wild laughter of the man in the pit.

The wave struck the temples with enough force to break through the stone. Nerisei stared up at the spray of seawater that burst through the cracks, watching as the darker, heavier water tore through after it. The stone of the building was falling in chunks larger than houses. The sound was horrifying, the roaring, howling of the water as it flooded the space. The guards ran for the door, their weapons clattering to the ground. Nerisei just clasped her hands in a wailing prayer, falling to her knees. She let the water take her.

The water climbed higher and higher around the temples, like a swarm of angry wasps around an invader. The houses were empty, and the streets were full with people staring in mute silence. The storm raged above, flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder making the people clutch each other, even as they moved closer to the temples. Tinsley moved with them, slow, numb steps, staring up at the roiling water. It came no further into the city. It just rose and rose, submerging the temples, like it was alive.

When the water retreated, there was nothing left.

The rain fell, torrential. It pounded against the stone, against the lakes that were now where the three temples stood only minutes beforehand. Tinsley stared at the strange, sudden emptiness of it. There was no destruction visible, no carnage. Just the thousands of ripples spreading over the water from the raindrops that showed no sign of stopping. The people around him stared too, some holding their robes over their heads in a feeble attempt to stay dry. The painted tattoos of the whores ran in blue rivulets down their skin, their black makeup streaked around their wide eyes. The silence stretched on. There was no reason to try and speak; the rain drowned out every other sound, holding them within a strange white noise. But Tinsley could still hear his heartbeat in his ears. It was loud and heavy. Ricky had been in the central temple, one of the temples that now lay under the water, rubble and debris that would soon be overgrown with seaweed, whelks, and periwinkles. He couldn't breathe. He was too late. Again, he was too late. He should've freed himself and went after Ricky earlier. He should've caused a scene in the temple, he should've killed Seia and the guards and everyone who stood between himself and Ricky. But he hadn't; he had been too patient, waiting for the guards to become engrossed in a card game before slipping out the window. And now he had paid the price for his patience. The future without Ricky caused a strange, painful curling within his chest, like his heart was trying to squeeze itself into nonexistence.

There was movement in the rain out on the lake, a shadow shifting against the dark background. Tinsley wasn't the only one who noticed. He saw heads lifting among the crowd in front of him. One or two people pointed where they stood at the front, their arms outstretched in the rain, fingers trembling. The shadow was coming towards them with slow, certain steps on the surface of the water below. Tinsley's face showed something it had never shown before; pure shock, his eyes wide and unblinking, his mouth open, his skin pale. He was unaware of the coolness of the rain on his face, the taste of it on his tongue. He watched the shadow become a silhouette, still blurred by the sheets of rain, and he watched as Ricky came to a halt at the top of the steps, the steps that had led up to the temple but now stood alone. The golden makeup on his eyes ran in streaks down his cheeks like precious tears, and the robe he wore was tattered from the force of the water that had torn through stone like hot metal through snow. Even from the distance he was at, Tinsley could see his hair was doing what it had done before; floating, curling, like the sea surrounded him, invisible but always present. 

And like a wave of another kind, the people began kneeling. It spread like a ripple from one person to the next. They knelt in the mud, they knelt on the damp, cold stone. They knelt on the seashells and they knelt on the wet sand. Some folded over, their palms, their elbows, their foreheads pressed to the ground. Some clutched jewelry at their necks with shaking hands. Some continued staring in awe, only falling to their knees because they were too weak to stand. They knelt, all of them, until only Tinsley was standing. He looked around him. As far as he could see in the mist of the rain, it was only a sea of bowing backs, like so many dark pebbles on a seashore. He looked back up at Ricky, who was looking back, only seeing a single dark silhouette tall among all the rest on the ground. Tinsley moved forwards.

He picked his way through the kneelers, and as he got closer to Ricky he struggled to keep his face in check. He felt strange, that familiar recognition in his chest again, that familiar fear that seemed to sleep in him until he saw Ricky in such a way. It was a fear that knew more than he himself did. The voices in his head scrambled to speak over each other; 

_danger,_

_danger,_

_danger._

He stopped at the bottom of the steps, and Ricky looked down at him, almost expectantly. Tinsley looked back, and although he felt weak all over, he kept his face stern. If Ricky expected him to kneel like all the rest, he was going to be surprised. Instead, Tinsley took off Ricky's coat. The rain stuck his shirt to his skin almost instantly, but he refused to act shameful. He held the coat out, trying to stop his arm from shaking. It was fear. He knew it was. Ricky came down, pulling the tattered golden robe off him, letting it lie strewn on the steps. He was bare-chested underneath, and his markings were vibrant in the darkness of the overcast clouds. They shone with the rainwater on his skin. He took the coat, slipping it back on with a satisfied smile. Then he looked back up at Tinsley and said, "Pity, you know. It suited you."

Tinsley didn't know how to respond. Only Ricky could react so casually in such a situation. "...How did you..." He looked at the three lakes beside them, how they seemed to bubble and froth with the raindrops striking them. His voice was weak. "...I don't understand."

Ricky looked him over, sidelong, before murmuring, "Yes you do. You just refused to believe me when I told you what I was."

Tinsley closed his mouth, swallowing hard. "So- So what are you then? Some sort of god?"

Ricky smiled. He rested a hand on the bare skin of Tinsley's forearm, running his thumb over it. His hand was hot. Then he moved past him. Tinsley stood alone in the rain, watching him go, watching how the people shuffled aside on their knees, keeping their heads down, their gazes averted. Some reached out with trembling hands to touch his coat as he passed. Tinsley gritted his teeth. His arm burned, as if Ricky's hand had branded him as something owned, something subservient. He looked back at the three lakes. The rain was still falling hard. It showed no sign of stopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ay so the goal is that i post chapter 21 tomorrow night because i feel sort of guilty for adding an extra chapter so last minute so i have been writing very much so that there isn't much of a wait. so yeah, check back tomorrow and see whats good


	21. Departed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I always have such need to merely talk to you. Even when I have nothing to talk about – with you I just seem to go right ahead and sort of invent it. I invent it for you. Because I never seem to run out of tenderness for you and because I need to feel you near. Excuse the bad writing and excuse the emotional overflow. What I mean to say, perhaps, is that, in a way, I am never empty of you; not for a moment, an instant, a single second.”_ \- Virginia Woolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another ricky/tinsley centric chapter, but cmon i love em

The dawn was arriving swiftly, its grey fingers slipping between the thin curtains of the bedroom. Tinsley didn't care. He hadn't slept. He had sat in the room, drinking cup after cup of wine. He hadn't moved from the table he sat at. His elbow rested on it, his fist pressed against his mouth. His foot tapped the floorboards, erratic. He had been thinking all night. Thinking about how everything he had been told growing up was a lie. The gods did exist. The warrior existed. The tale of the warrior and the lover was true. But there was something wrong, something that had refused to let him rest the night before. Pieces of a puzzle whirled around in his head, and he was struggling to fit them together. The voices were clawing in his head. Tinsley tried to shake them into silence. They had gotten worse, ever since seeing Ricky destroying the three temples. Their words tumbled over one another, but he caught the same ones again and again; _danger, pain, terror, death._ It was growing harder to tune them out.

He had hoped, in a way, that Ricky was going to pay him a visit throughout the night. But he had been entirely elusive. He had what he wanted now, Tinsley supposed. He had a loyal following and people who would hang onto his every word. But Tinsley didn't care. He had never wanted Ricky the way Ricky had wanted him. But even as he tried to convince himself of this, he was raking a hand back through his hair hard enough for it to hurt.

Eventually he sat back, silhouetted against the white square of the window behind him. He would go and find Ricky, if Ricky wasn't going to come to him. He would find Ricky and he would inform him that he was leaving. He wasn't sure where he was going to go. He wasn't even sure if he would go. He just wanted to see what Ricky's reaction would be to the news. Would he care, or would he brush it aside, content with his new life? 

After searching for some time, Tinsley was directed to the right building. Inside, he was directed to the right room. He stopped outside the door. The sound of laughter and low murmurs floated out from the keyhole. His face dropped, bit by bit, his eyes unblinking. He knew what it was. He knew that he should've left, pretended that he hadn't heard anything, let himself deal with the surge of anger in his chest alone. But he didn't. Instead, he slammed his fist against the door three times, hard enough to shake it in its hinges. There was a surprised silence from within. Then he heard Ricky's relaxed voice, telling someone to answer. Tinsley squeezed his eyes shut, mentally cursing himself for acting so impulsively, but he opened them swiftly once the door handle moved.

The man who answered was shorter than him, but broader. He had cool blue eyes and scars on his face; one across his nose, and one on his brow. He looked at Tinsley expectantly, but stood back in alarm when Tinsley returned the look with a fierce glare. Tinsley stepped into the room, his gaze finding the bed. He could see Ricky's curly head of hair, and it wasn't alone. There was a blonde head and a light-brown one too, murmuring sweet nothings to each other. Ricky turned over, sitting upright at the sight of Tinsley. The covers slid down, baring his chest. For a brief moment, he seemed ashamed at being found like so. Then he arched a dark eyebrow, almost challenging, as if daring Tinsley to speak out. Tinsley stared back in silence, his eyes wide, his brows drawn together, his neck stiff and straight. Awkwardness flooded the room. The two men in the bed with Ricky grew quiet, and shared a wide-eyed glance. Tinsley felt his face grow red, the humiliation unbearable. He ducked his head, taking a swift second to get his bearings, before turning on his heel and leaving. He heard Ricky's voice again, telling someone to fetch him a robe. Tinsley's anger flared. Who did he think he was? Having everyone at his beck and call, opening his doors for him, fetching his clothes for him, climbing into his bed whenever he clicked his fingers. Tinsley's boots clattered down the stairs, even as he heard Ricky say his name, sharply, as if ordering him to stay still. Tinsley's heart was hammering in his chest, in his throat. He was halfway across the kitchen before Ricky caught up with him.

"Tinsley! I'm trying to talk to you!" Ricky was still tying his robe around his waist, twisting the fabric tight. "What's wrong now?"

Tinsley turned to face him, the outrage clear on his face. "What's wrong? What's wrong?! You- You-"

"I what," said Ricky just as heatedly. "What did I do now."

"You did what I always knew you would do," said Tinsley, his voice suddenly drained of all heat, icy cold instead. "You little whore."

Ricky inclined his head, his eyes dark. "You're just jealous."

"I'm-"

"As if you have any right," hissed Ricky. "As if you have _any_ right to be jealous. You refused me. You refused me more than once!"

Tinsley held his impudent gaze, wanting nothing more than to strike him across the face. "I was hoping you would take it upon yourself to put some effort into earning my affections. But I see now that that's not part of your..." His lip curled somewhat. "...culture."

Ricky blinked his disbelief at Tinsley's degrading tone. "My culture? In my culture we don't hide our feelings from each other. Because it leads to situations like this one!"

Tinsley laughed, a dry sound. "Feelings? You have feelings for me, do you? Tell me why you have these feelings. What is it about me that you like."

Ricky stared at him, unblinking. "I- I-"

"I'll tell you what you like about me, Ricky. You like the fact that you can't have me. And I'm beginning to see now that if I let you have me you'd- you'd fuck me and toss me aside like all the rest."

For a moment, Ricky was quiet. "Is that really what you think of me."

"It's not what I think of you. It's what I've observed about you."

A wry laugh. "You have no idea how I feel. You can't even understand your own damn feelings, and you think you can analyse mine?"

"Yes. Because you have the emotional depth of a child, Ricky. You see something you like and you want it. You see something you don't like and you try to destroy it. You're all fun and games when you're happy but when you're sad or hurt or angry you're a spiteful little creature."

Ricky flinched at the words, his fists clenching by his sides. "You compare me to a child when here you are throwing another one of your fucking tantrums because you didn't get what you want."

Tinsley took a sudden step forwards, his jaw clenched, the look on his face so intense that Ricky wondered if he should turn tail and flee. "And you think you're what I want, is that it."

"You do want me," said Ricky, watching him closely. He could see the hollow between Tinsley's collarbones fluttering with his shallow breaths. Without the coat, Tinsley wasn't half as intimidating as he usually was. He was more visibly human, less untouchable. "You do. And you lie to yourself. And you want me to come begging on my knees to you because then you don't have to look at yourself and see that you're just as much to blame as I am. Why should I have to work for your affections when you clearly see me as someone unworthy of having them in the first place?"

Tinsley closed his mouth. He was a bit taken aback at this. Ricky's eyes crawled over his face with that horrible knowing glimmer in them.

"Or is there more to it?" said Ricky softly. "Perhaps - just perhaps - you're afraid that you feel more for me than I do for you, and you want me to show you that that isn't true."

Tinsley swallowed, trying to keep the gesture subtle. He held Ricky's gaze, despite the fact it made him feel like hiding away inside himself.

"But maybe it is true," said Ricky, coming closer. "Does the thought irritate you?"

"Stop it."

"Do the feelings that you have for me make you angry? Are you frightened of yourself?"

"Ricky, stop." His voice sounded odd, almost choked. "I hate when you're like this. I hate when you do this."

"If you insult me, I'm going to insult you back."

"You aren't insulting me when you're like this," said Tinsley, his voice still somewhat feeble. "You just tell me things about myself that I don't want to know yet."

Ricky didn't know how to respond. He had never seen Tinsley like this, so strangely vulnerable, his gaze lowered and his hands hovering at his stomach, as if Ricky might whip out a blade and knife him on the spot. For a moment, they stood in silence. Then Tinsley dropped his hands and turned away. He left without a word. Ricky stared after him, wondering where he was going. Probably somewhere private so he could build himself back up again, encase himself in layers of steel so that no one could see him, let alone touch him. And just for a moment, Ricky felt truly terrible. He rubbed at the back of his neck, his head lowered.

"Is everything okay?" said Haron from the top of the stairs, a little wary.

Ricky didn't look at him. "Yes. Yes, everything's fine."

A familiar screeching from the sky made Ricky turn to face the door. Another creature screeched back. Two? Ricky's blood went cold.

* * *

Tinsley stood on the damp stone beside the three lakes. He could see Sky, far above, coming down towards the city. She wasn't alone. There was another griffin with her, smaller, and immediately recognizable. Tinsley's heart ached at the sight of another griffin, at the sight of another rider, someone from his homeland. Tears pricked his eyes. He had been so alone. It hadn't struck him until now. All he wanted was someone who would understand him, someone who he could understand. Then his face flushed scarlet, and he pulled the collar of his shirt higher, suddenly aware of every single inch of skin he was showing. He quickly gathered himself, forcing his arms back to his sides. If Seia had been right, then the shame he felt was Council-driven, and he wouldn't let it own him. Not how he used to.

Holly flew in silently, landing with more grace and delicacy than Sky beside her. Her griffin, Gale, was a soft and shy little creature. Its face was snow white, its eyes large and black and moist. He often thought that, if a griffin could blush, Gale would have two spots of red on his white cheeks constantly.

Tinsley hurried to Sky, fetching his coat, gloves, and jumper from the saddlebag. He held them over his arm as he turned to face Holly. She dismounted, fixing her evening-sky orange coat around her legs, removing her goggles from her eyes before signing, _hello._

Tinsley wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Only Holly would approach the current scenario with a simple hello. He almost wanted to run up and embrace her, but that was out of the question. He had been spending too much time with Ricky and his ilk, it seemed. Instead, he just signed back, _What are you doing here?_

 _I’m here for you._ She glanced around, making sure no one had snuck up on her. _We have to talk. It’s important._

Faces were watching from the windows, eyes wide and curious. The sight of two riders so far from the Roost was a rare sight indeed, and the sight of two griffins worthy of a prolonged stare. Tinsley wished they’d leave. He signed so to Holly, and she replied, _Who are they anyway?_

_Long story._

_In a good way or a bad way?_

_I’m not sure._

“What’s going on?”

Tinsley turned to look at Ricky, who had emerged from the house, watching Holly with open suspicion in his black eyes. Tinsley glared at him, before looking back at Holly and signing, _I’ve gotten caught up with some strange people._

“What are you doing with your hands?” demanded Ricky, coming forwards.

Tinsley threw him an impatient look. “It’s our language. You don’t know it.”

“You have your own language? Well, I guess there’s a lot about each other’s cultures that we didn’t know.”

“For crying out loud, Ricky. Can’t you understand that not everything is about you?”

Holly observed their faces, the icy anger on Tinsley’s and the hot anger on the other man’s. The man was dressed like a typical whore from the Temples, yet there was an air of authority, of entitlement around him, in the way he jerked his chin up and eyed her like she was below him. He was almost intimidatingly beautiful. She spoke out loud.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” said Tinsley clearly. _He’s just a nuisance. Nothing more._

Ricky watched their hands with narrowed eyes as they started conversing again. Then he turned away with a toss of his dark hair, going back into the house he had emerged from. Tinsley scowled after him. Holly suddenly felt quite uncomfortable, as if she had walked into the middle of a scene when her cue hadn’t been called yet.

_Are you okay?_

_I’m fine._ Tinsley glanced around at the watching faces, all of which seemed more hostile than before, eyeing him with distrust. _Let’s find somewhere to talk._

They made themselves scarce, leaving the griffins to wander their way to the nearest stretch of grass. Holly followed Tinsley into a house, and he checked it was empty before closing the doors and the windows and fetching wine. She refused a drink. She watched Tinsley closely. The last time she had seen him he had been a ruin, hardly a stumble away from giving up entirely. At least now he had some fire back in him, the same old sharpness back in his eyes, the pride back in his shoulders. She was relieved to find he had regained the weight he had lost in the cell; when he moved to draw the shutters, she saw the lean muscle of his shoulders press against the cotton of his shirt. She wasn’t sure what to think of the shirt. He was clearly aware of it, and his general shabbiness; he ran his hands back through his hair, which was longer than it used to be, and he rubbed at the stubble on his chin, which was only a day or two from becoming a beard. He looked at her in silence for a moment. Then he sat down. She waited for him to give her leave to sit. He seemed a bit confused at first; he had gotten used to the informality of the mainland. He had gotten used to not being a leader. He gestured at the chair opposite, and she sat.

 _Why are you here,_ he asked.

_For you._

His eyes narrowed somewhat, and his hands moved hesitantly as he signed, _For me?_

Holly took a breath before breaking the news. _The war is not over._

Tinsley didn’t respond for a moment. Seia had said the same words to him, yet he dismissed them as lies, coming from her mouth. But not from Holly’s. Holly never lied. _How? Why?_

_Because people think you’re dead. They believe the Council murdered you in a way disrespectful to all of us._

_So they reignited the war themselves? I won’t show them any sympathy._

_The war needs to end. It’s gone on for far too long._

Prickles ran up his spine. _Why are you here._

She pressed her lips in a line, but when her hands moved, they moved firmly. _We want you home, Tinsley. We need you home._

He shook his head, closing his eyes. “I can’t. I can’t.”

She lightly knocked on the table to get him to open his eyes again. _Ventis has declared himself king._

King? Something about the word made Tinsley’s skin crawl. There was an answer forming in his head, one that he didn’t yet have a question to. _Ventis isn’t a king. He’s a tyrant. We have no king._

_Well ‘we’ are dying, Tinsley. We need you home. The Council have developed something, some weapon that we can't fight back against._

Tinsley bit on his lip. His brows drew together slightly. _Who led while I was gone?_

_Me._

_So who is leading them now?_

“Rasha.”

_Rasha is too temperamental. You should've chosen Aran. He has a better attitude. Or you shouldn’t have left at all._

Her face grew red. _I had to. I needed to convince the Council I was dead._

_What? Why?_

_Because they were after me._

Tinsley eyed her curiously; there was something she wasn’t saying. _Why were they after you._

She hesitated. _I wanted to write to you, but I didn’t know where you were._

He looked her in the eye and signed, _Why._

She looked back, her face reddening even more. Her hands waved vaguely for a moment before signing, _After we… shared a bed, I became… with child._

Tinsley stared. He looked down at her stomach, raising a finger slightly off his knee to point at it, like it could separate from her body and attack him. ”You…”

_No. It’s been gone for a long time. The Roost is no place for a child._

Tinsley stared at her in silence for another moment. It was as if this was the final hint he had needed, the final brushstroke to complete the painting that had formed in his mind, the painting that had been nothing but shades of light and dark until now. He signed, slowly, _A child._

She nodded.

_I thought you were…_

_I thought I was past childbearing too. But it seems not. I was getting sick in the mornings. My stomach was filling out._

Tinsley nodded slowly. It wasn’t a joyous announcement. He felt no attraction to Holly, he never had. Their night together had only come about due to one too many cups of wine and a victory in the field earlier that day that had filled them with energy and excitement. He repeated, _A child._

She nodded again. He lowered his gaze, dumbstruck. It all made sense to him now. The voices in his head. The strange hatred that had awoken in him when he had first met Ricky, that hadn’t gone away for weeks, that still resurfaced even now. The fear that struck him to his core whenever he saw Ricky use his power. Seia, informing him they were the monarchs from the stories. Holly, with his child, a child that should have come to be, but for the first time ever, hadn't. He felt like he was breathing too heavily, too quickly. He looked at Holly again.

_You don’t have to explain. I’ll come home. I started the war. It’s only right that I finish it for good._

She seemed relieved. _Thank you, Tinsley. Gods, thank you._

He nodded, but he was already distracted. He had to tell Ricky about the child. He had to say it to him, just to see if he put two and two together in his head. If he didn't, at least Tinsley could say he had told him everything, that it was Ricky's own fault he hadn't realized what it all meant. So he went to find Ricky, his heart beating so hard he thought he was going to be sick.

* * *

The first warning sign had been the stench of smoke in the air. At first it had been subtle, easily confused for the smoke that billowed from the top of the mining shops. But it grew stronger and stronger as the ships drew inland. It grew so strong and so distinctive that the miner’s gathered on the deck of the boats, and stood silent in the freezing air, looking about them for land. The only sounds were the strange creaking and dull cracking of the ice as the steel hulls of the shops broke through it.

The second warning was the sight of the plume of smoke, a pillar of darkness in the distance. By now, the shop had grown entirely silent. The chugging of the engines seemed to echo across the waves.

The Mayor stood by the ship’s captain, protected from the elements within the bridge of the ship. A large, wide pane of glass allowed him to see what lay ahead of them. He almost wanted to tell the captain to turn the ship around and to flee. But that would change nothing. But difficulties had to be faced. A life spent at ease was a life spent running away.

The pillar of smoke was rising from Snow’s End. Even as the ships drew closer to the port, the Mayor could see that a vast majority of the buildings were blackened and charred, the ash floating into the air to join the soft snow. Other fires were still raging. They cast an ominous glow around the city where it vanished over the hill, like the final moments of a sunset.

No one came to greet the miners on their return. The lack of movement within the city was a source of immeasurable dread. The Mayor felt sick to his stomach. He disembarked first.

Once off the ship and away from the port, the dull roaring of the fires was the only sound. The Mayor could feel people watching him, waiting to see what he would do. He felt Manda’s hand on his arm, an attempt at comfort.

“Absalom,” she said, quiet. “They’re waiting for you to say something.”

Say what? That their future had been razed to the ground, the future they had only just seized? Their future that had been murdered in its crib? He said to her, “Tell everyone to look for survivors.”

He entered the city first. The buildings had not been the only thing destroyed. A body lay halfway out a door. The snow around them was stained pink. More bodies were visible half-hidden under the snowfall. The delegation must have only departed a day or two beforehand. But how had they even gotten into the city? How had they gotten past the gates, the towering walls? He looked for the walls in the distance, and realized that some sections had fallen to the ground, and smoke was rising from them in black tendrils.

“Absalom!”

The Mayor knew from the sound of Manda’s voice that whatever she had found, it wasn’t good. He followed her to the main square. Others stood there already, in small groups of threes and fours, mute with shock. He could see some people, some survivors, appearing in doorways, people still shaking with fright, trauma making their faces drawn and sick. It was the only time he had ever seen the glasshands stand so close to his own people. He wondered how long they had been hiding in each other’s houses for.

In the centre of the square a makeshift gallows had been erected. From these gallows hung none other than the bodies of the richest families within the city. Old families, ancient ones, still dressed in their finery, their rich plush velvets and luxurious embroidery. Their bodies turned slowly back and forth, the gallows creaking with the weight. Painted in dark, dripping red on the wall behind them it said, _TRAITORS._

“Absalom.” Manda sounded close to tears, her voice wavering. “Absalom, look.”

Finally, he saw. He saw his niece, strung up with all the rest, her deep green dress lifting softly about her slippered feet in the cold breeze. Beside her was his brother. Amadeus looked so similar to him that the Mayor felt as though he was looking at his own corpse, eyes glazed, mouth slack. But to the right of Amadeus was a large sack of flour, tied up and hung about its makeshift neck with all the rest. On the front, in the same dark dripping red as was on the wall, it said, _Absalom Borisovich._ He stared for a long few minutes. The air tasted cold and bitter in his mouth.

“Take them down,” he ordered, his voice unheard due to the dull crackling of the fires all around. “Take them down! Find every single body in this city. We will give them a proper burial. Everyone.”

A voice called out, “Why should we bury glasshands? What are they to us?”

The Mayor turned to find the speaker, but whoever it had been was hidden among the crowd that had gathered when he wasn’t looking. He spoke to all of them.

“Do you not see? Do you not see what this means?” He pointed up at the bodies. His tears were freezing in place on his cheeks. “This means none of us are free! No one! To the Council we are all just- just pawns who must play our roles, and if we don’t, this-” He pointed again at the hanging bodies. “-is what awaits us! This! Don’t you see?”

The people stared in silence. A woman watched from a doorway, a glasshand, and in her arms she held a miner’s child, dressed in drab greys and browns. The child’s parents were nowhere to be seen. The Mayor swallowed hard, holding his emotions in check so he could continue speaking.

“This shows that the Council does not look at us and see a group of individuals. They look at us and see a thronging mass who act as one and therefore must be destroyed as one. They look at us and see expendable playing pieces. They do not see humans when they look at us. They’ll- They’ll kill us all and send their own kind up here to replace us and run the land as they want it to be run!” He took a breath. “And they have killed us. They have. They’ve already started.”

He let the implications of his words spread from mouth to mouth; they’ve already started, and they have yet to finish. The Mayor pointed at the bodies again, trying not to let his tremblings show.

“This is the end they want for all of us. Every single person here. If we go back, if we act as if nothing has happened, they will still have won.” He straightened up, and spoke loudly. “We go south. We go south again. We bury our dead, and we go south. And every last Councillor will hang for what they’ve done to us for all these years, what they’ve done to all our ancestors, and what they _will_ do to our children, and our children’s children.”

A sea of nodding heads responded, sombre. Manda was staring at him, and her face was equal parts serious and equal parts proud.

“This is what they will do!” The Mayor didn’t have to point; the answer lay all around him, the smoking city, the bodies in the hallways and the blood on the cobblestones. “So we will fight. And it will be difficult. It will be bloody. But history will look back on us kindly.”

The miners nodded their support. The glasshands shared looks and nodded too. The Mayor looked back at the hanging bodies, at the last of his family. He had always been the outcast, and yet here he was, the only one remaining. It felt lonely, more lonely than he ever would have expected. Manda patted his shoulder, looking him in the eye; the white snowflakes caught in her red hair, freezing into place.

“You’re doing the right thing, Absalom. We all are.”

He swallowed hard, pulling his furs more tightly around him. “But what if it’s a mistake? What if I’m leading us to our deaths?”

“Better to die than live with the memory of what they’ve done here.”

They watched in silence as the hanging bodies were cut down, one by one. It took the rest of the evening and the night to gather the dead. At dawn, they set the pyres alight. The smoke stung tears in the eyes of the living, but when they began to get ready to go south again, there was a solid, palpable anger among them, an anger that could be wielded more fatally than any weapon known. The Mayor and Manda, along with chosen miners and glasshands, plotted their course. They would take the Black Ink river across the mainland and sail down the western coast; if what they had heard was true, then Ricky was in the east, drawing the Council’s attention away from elsewhere. They would have to be wary around the Roost, and put a suitable distance between their fleet and the island. If they weren’t spotted, they could take Arcania by surprise from the sea.

He studied the island in the south-west. He wondered if Holly had found Tinsley yet, if they were on their way back yet. The Mayor tapped the small painting of the island.

“We’ll stop here.”

Manda stared at him in disbelief. “What? Why? The Roost is one giant battlefield!”

“A battlefield that we might be able to help turn the tides of,” said the Mayor pensively. “If Tinsley goes with Holly, he’ll be there. If we help the riders take back the island, we’ll have an invaluable ally. And I believe that, after what the Council has done to them, they’ll be very eager to take a visit to Arcania too.”

Manda’s eyes searched the map, lingering on the east. “Do you think Ricky will be there too?”

“I don’t know. Ricky’s a wildcard in this world.” He looked at her. “But I know what I saw when he stopped that dam water. So I hope to the gods we cross paths again.”

* * *

Tinsley packed his bag hurriedly. He didn't have much. He was back in his rider's gear, and the coat made him feel strong again, like it physically supported his limbs. The rapier at his belt, his pistol at the other, were welcome weights. He glanced at the ticking clock on the wall. Dusk would be falling soon. He buckled his bag. There were three slow knocks on the door. Ominous. He went still. Then he said, "Come in."

He heard the door open. He heard it close. He continued pretending to be preoccupied with closing his bag. Eventually, Ricky spoke.

“You’re leaving.”

Tinsley cleared his throat, straightening up, as if his bag had finally closed. Then he sat down on the side of the bed, linking his hands between his knees, looking at Ricky. He was back in his dark shirt and trousers, and his ground-length greatcoat, the same one Tinsley had grown quite used to feeling around his shoulders. “Yes.”

Ricky's face was both angry and hurt, his eyes unblinking as they watched Tinsley's face. “Why.”

Tinsley looked up at him. “Because there’s more for me at home.”

Ricky swallowed hard, lowering his gaze. “So there’s nothing for you here.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So what’s here isn’t enough for you.”

Tinsley gave him an impatient look. “This isn’t where I’m meant to be.”

“You get to decide that,” said Ricky, his voice wavering. “You get to decide where you’re meant to be. You could stay. You still can.”

“I can’t.”

Ricky closed his eyes. “You must still hate me. You must still hate me as much as you did when you first met me, if you can hurt me like this. If you can treat me like this. You’re- You’re cruel, and you’re hateful.”

Tinsley waited until he was finished before speaking. “Maybe you’re just not used to having to work for someone’s time.”

“This isn’t work. This is torture.”

Tinsley laughed dryly, shaking his head. “No it’s not. I can promise you that.”

Ricky looked at him again, gritting his teeth. “What did I do wrong. What have I been doing wrong. Tell me that, at least.”

Tinsley got to his feet, pulling on his gloves. Then he said, sternly, as if it was a lesson Ricky refused to learn, “We’re not good for each other, Ricky.”

“Why not. Why do you think that.”

“Because we’ve spent the majority of our time in each other’s presence fighting. Just because we’ve had two somewhat normal conversations does not mean we belong anywhere near each other.”

Ricky looked him in the eye, looked until he saw Tinsley’s bravado weaken, until he saw him swallow, until he saw his fists clench by his sides. “Do you feel anything for me.”

“Ricky…”

“Do you feel anything for me,” repeated Ricky, more harshly. “Do you or have you ever felt something for me. Tell me.”

“Ricky, this isn’t fair.”

“Just tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving anyway.”

“You owe it to me to tell me. It’s the least you could do right now.”

“Ricky." A silence with barbs on it. "Enough of this.”

“How do you expect to go home and lead an army when you can’t even look me in the eye and tell me if you have feelings for me.”

“I’d choose a battlefield over this any day, believe me.”

Ricky looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “I wish I’d never met you.”

Tinsley understood. It wasn't a cruel insult. It wasn't a wish that the other had never existed. It was simply an acknowledgement that both of their lives had been made all the more difficult by the other's presence. “I wish I’d never met you either.”

Ricky wiped his eyes furiously, the tears shining on his cheeks. He sniffed, standing with his hands on his hips, swallowing hard to try and stop himself from crying. Tinsley watched him, feeling guilt crawling up his throat with hot fingers.

“Ricky, I have a life at home. A different life.”

“A life with no room for me.”

“A life with no room for anyone.”

“I get it, Tinsley,” he said, his voice angry and thick with tears. “And I think I’ve heard enough about your emotionally stunted life. I hope you go home and I hope you’re fucking miserable.” His voice cracked, and he turned his head aside, hiding his face. “I hope- I hope you think about this moment. I hope it haunts you.”

Tinsley knew this moment wouldn’t haunt him. He knew it, because for him this moment would never die. He would relive it again and again, until he was old and grey. But he had a duty, and Ricky was a distraction. A sweet one, but a dangerous one. Tinsley knew he should’ve left it there, left it as a clean break. But he couldn’t. The look on Ricky’s face was killing him, the memory of it would keep him awake for the rest of his life. He swallowed hard and said, “I do feel something for you, Ricky. I don’t know what it is, but it terrifies me. I can’t- It won’t end well. You have to understand that I’m leaving for our own good.”

Ricky looked at him, his face wet with tears, his lashes dark and heavy with them. “What do you mean?”

Tinsley rubbed a hand over his mouth, agitatedly. “Sometimes I remember you, Ricky. I remember you from a time before either of us were even born.” He saw the sudden hope on Ricky’s face, eyes widening, head lifting. Tinsley wanted to say _No, don’t look at me like that, not now._ “But… But the memories, the feelings I can remember… They frighten me. In them, you- you scare me. I feel like I’m in danger.”

Ricky’s face fell. “But that doesn’t make sense. You’re meant to be-”

“I’m not the lover, Ricky,” he said, softly and shakily. “Whatever time we spent together, it wasn’t pleasant. I’m sorry.”

Ricky stared blankly for a moment, his entire world pulled out from underneath him just like that. “Why did you not tell me earlier.”

“Because I didn’t believe any of this stuff until I saw you do what you did yesterday.”

Ricky's eyes flickered over him, as if for some sort of sign. “But then who are you. What are you. If you’re not-”

“I don’t know.” Tinsley felt the lie slip through his teeth, and it grated like sand on his tongue. “I don’t know.”

But he didn’t get away with it so easily. Ricky stared at him, and slowly his face grew more and more shocked as it dawned on him. He had heard many variations of the tale of the warrior and the lover, but only one thing remained consistent; there was the warrior, the lover, and the king. The king who was cruel in some tellings and gentle in others. The king who fought the warrior, again and again, and who perished, again and again. The king who was always in the background of the stories, only there to die at the warrior's hands. A monarch, who wore gold on his shoulders and walked among the clouds and the stars. And here was Tinsley, a man who walked around with his head held so high it was as if the crown had never left. Ricky wondered how he hadn't realized earlier, how he hadn't realized when Tinsley said he had almost fathered a child. The child. Ricky’s voice was hoarse.

“You lost your child.”

Tinsley nodded, closing his eyes. “I didn’t know.”

"The child... would've been..."

"I know."

“So- So there is no lover.” Ricky’s eyes were wide and unfocused. “There’s no lover. And you’re- you’re-”

“I’m not someone you’re meant to be with,” whispered Tinsley, still with his eyes closed.

“But I want to be with you. I do.”

“It won’t end well. If all of this, everything about the gods and the warrior, if it's true... It’ll end how it’s always ended.” 

Ricky shook his head, urgent. “No. No, I'd never harm you.”

“It’s best we stay apart, Ricky. You have to see that now.” He opened his eyes, looking at Ricky’s face. “We’ll ruin each other.”

“But it doesn’t make sense. It can’t.” Ricky sat down by the table, covering his mouth with a shaking hand. “You can’t be him. I have feelings for you. They’re real, more real than I’ve ever felt. It’s too- I’d never hurt you.”

“Things could change.”

Ricky didn’t respond for a few long seconds. Then he looked up at him. “You don’t trust me.”

Tinsley raised his chin. “You said before that when you use your- your power, so to say, that you can’t remember what you do.”

“You don’t trust me not to hurt you.” Ricky laughed, suddenly spiteful. “I should be the one who doesn’t trust _you_ not to hurt _me!_ When we first met you grabbed every chance you could get to lay your hands on me! How many times did you leave bruises on my face for days?”

“There has never been a telling of the story where the warrior dies and the king lives,” said Tinsley grimly. _“You_ have nothing to be afraid of. Me, on the other hand-”

“There’s never been a telling of the story where the lover never existed either. Anything could happen. Everything is different.”

"Ricky." Tinsley closed his mouth, his jaw clenched, his eyes worried. "Ricky, I just feel like you have to know that- that when you use your power, and when I see you use it, I feel like I have to stop you. I feel like I have to- to harm you. I don't think it's a good idea for us to stay around each other if we're both experiencing these... these old feelings."

"But how certain are you. How certain are you that you're him."

"I... Pretty certain. I've been hearing voices in my head. I thought I was just going crazy, because they're not my voice. It's the same as you said, about the voices you hear. It can't be a coincidence."

Ricky rubbed his hands together, resting his chin on them. "So... So we..." 

Tinsley sat on the side of his bed, elbows on his knees, letting his head rest in his hands. Ricky slumped back in his chair, his eyes still somewhat vacant, somewhat glazed. They sat in silence for a long few minutes.

“When did you realize,” said Ricky slowly.

Tinsley’s voice was muffled against his gloved hands. “When Seia told me we used to be monarchs, when she said the Council had a plan to wipe us out. When Holly told me about the child. When I felt what I felt when I saw you do what you did yesterday. All of it just fell into place in my head.”

“Were you going to tell me before I left. Or were you going to let me pine after you like a fool.”

It was Tinsley’s turn to hide his face now. “I wanted you to find out somehow. Just… not so soon.”

“Coward.”

Tinsley didn’t respond. Ricky was right. After a moment, Ricky spoke again.

“And Seia said this is all the Council’s plan.”

“Yes.”

“Did she say anything more?”

“I’m sure she could have.” _If you hadn’t killed her._

Ricky ignored the unspoken words. “Then it’s you and me against them.”

“What?”

“They killed the lover. Killed them before they were even born. We’re next.”

Tinsley watched him closely. “Yes. I suppose we are.”

“Then I’m coming to you,” said Ricky firmly, looking him in the eye. “If the Roost falls, you’re done for. Then it will be just me.”

“Ricky-”

“You’ve seen what I can do. I’ll help you protect your home. I’ll save your people.”

 _“I’ll_ save my people,” said Tinsley coldly. “I didn’t ask for your help. You offered it.”

Ricky held his gaze before smiling wryly. “Of course. Your Highness.”

Tinsley rested his head in his hand, covering his weary eyes. “You’re not funny.”

Ricky watched him, the side of his face he could see. “I meant it when I said I’ll never harm you. I don’t think I could.”

“That’s a relief to hear.”

“Now _you’re_ not funny.”

The sharp knocking on the door made them both jump in alarm. Tinsley raised his voice, telling whoever it was to enter. When nothing happened, he gave himself a sharp smack in the forehead before getting up and opening the door. Holly looked at him, and then at Ricky, and then back at Tinsley. She signed, _We’ll have to leave soon if we want to get anywhere before dark._

Tinsley bit on his lip, his gaze lowered. _Just give me a minute._

She nodded once, before turning away and receding down the hall. Tinsley closed the door, leaning against it for a moment. His throat felt horribly tight.

“What did she say?” asked Ricky, although his tone said he knew already.

“That we have to leave now before it’s too late to bother going.”

Ricky fixed him with a softly pleading look. “...You could stay one more night.”

“Ricky, don’t…” He stayed with a shoulder leaning against the door, his head ducked. He could hear Ricky’s footsteps come to a halt in front of him. “It’s not a good idea.”

To his surprise, Ricky didn’t argue with him. He didn’t verbally push and pull at him. He just let himself move forwards until his head was against Tinsley’s chest. Tinsley drew him into an embrace, his face in Ricky’s dark hair, breathing him in, the familiar scent of him. When Ricky’s shoulders had stopped shaking he cupped his face, stepping back to look down into his brimming eyes, brushing his thumbs over his cheeks. He kissed him on his forehead, lingering, feeling Ricky’s hands on his lower back, holding the fabric of his coat. Ricky stood forlornly as Tinsley stepped back, and he watched as Tinsley pressed a kiss to the back of his hand, holding it against his lips for a long moment with his eyes squeezed shut. Ricky’s breaths jumped in his chest, making it hard for him to swallow his tears. He tried to memorize the feeling of his hand held in both of Tinsley's, how warm it felt, how safe. Then Tinsley tore himself away so suddenly Ricky expected blood to leak from the air between them.

Ricky wished he had the willpower to stay in the room, but he didn’t. He followed Tinsley outside, watching him cross the square to where Sky waited for him. A small group had gathered in the streets to watch the riders take flight. Holly and her smaller griffin stood beside Sky, and Ricky felt an unreasonable surge of hatred for her, for how she had come in and was taking Tinsley away from him. He wiped his eyes and nose with his sleeve, clinging onto his anger to stay steady.

Tinsley climbed into the saddle, wrapping the reins around his hands. He sat still for a moment before turning his head and looking at Ricky one last time, his throat working. Ricky raised a hand, waving a slow goodbye. Tinsley smiled at him, a small one, lips pressing together. Then he gave the reins a swift flick, and Sky bounded forwards with a screech, spreading her wings and soaring over the buildings, the smaller griffin following silently. The puddles on the ground rippled like dozens of miniature seas.

Ricky watched them go, biting on his knuckles, his eyes watering. He stood for a long time, even after their black silhouettes had vanished into the strength of the evening sun. He knew it was foolish, but he was hoping Tinsley would return. He was hoping he had forgotten something, anything. But he didn't. Ricky felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" asked Maie softly.

He nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes."

He left before she could inquire into his feelings any more. He went down the hillside, descending the rocks to the stony beach below. He waded into the water, icy cold from being in shadow, but he didn't mind. He had grown to love cold touches. He knelt in the shallows, letting them swirl around his legs as he stared out at the vastness of the ocean.

"Why?" he asked numbly.

But he knew the gods didn't have the answer, not this time. He knew that the reason everything had changed was because of the Council. This time, his duty as the warrior was heavier than it had ever been before. The one thing he had thought to be true was a lie. He wasn't meant to be with Tinsley. He wasn't meant to love him. But he did love him, in a twisted, complicated way. It wasn't the simple love that was true. It was something dark, something he hadn't thought to stand back and study. Was he meant to hate Tinsley? Were they meant to hate each other? They did, at the start. At times he felt that Tinsley still did. At times, he felt the same. But if it was hatred, it burned with an intensity hotter than love. And now he and Tinsley's fates were tied, knotted together, a tangle that would never be untangled. Ricky stumbled to his feet, wading further into the water, his coat floating about him. He pushed out to where the waves were high and curling, smashing against the shore. When the next one reared, his closed his eyes, and he let it plunge him deep, deep into the icy coldness below. It felt just like being in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thassit. follow me on tumblr (@icantwritegood) for updates and stuff about part 2! :D


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